


Snape, Actually

by LikeABear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Absolutely no Ron, Christmas, Complete, Drama, Drarry, F/F, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Gossip, Grimmauld Place, HP: EWE, Housemates, Intended one shot, Jane Eyre - Freeform, M/M, Mistletoe, Neville drinking eggnog, New Year's Eve, Rita Skeeter - Freeform, Romance, Snow Kisses, Weasley joke shop fun, bickering house elves, eye-patch Draco, snamione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeABear/pseuds/LikeABear
Summary: 4 years after the battle of Hogwarts, BFF's Hermione and Harry throw a Christmas Eve party at Grimmauld Place. Everyone is invited - from the defected and acquitted Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape to Hermione's suddenly returned ex-girlfriend, Ginny Weasley. With Ginny on a warpath, Drarry on the horizon and some pesky mistletoe, Hermione takes sanctuary in a secluded room with fire whiskey and... Severus Snape. One small kiss is about to change everything.
And oh, dear Merlin, what has Rita Skeeter written about them now?!
COMPLETE!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic as a Christmas present for my cousin and fellow snamione shipper. We had the idea to exchange fics instead of gifts. The rules were simple: a one-shot fic about one of our shared OTP's from any fandom. Then I wrote 40,000+ words in 100+ pages. I gifted it to her and she loved it, so I decided to publish it here.
> 
> Since this is a fic I had written specifically for someone, there are references in it to other things we both enjoy. Some inside jokes, some books or TV shows. I'm not trying to mask these references as my own ideas. They're meant to be obvious nods. After each chapter I'll include a note that calls out and credits that chapter's references, if any. 
> 
> A note about the title: This is not a Love, Actually/Harry Potter-verse mashup. So, sorry, if you came here looking for that. It's just a title that made me laugh out loud when I thought of it and one I hope gets to the point: This is a Christmas fic and it has Snape in it. If you came for the title alone, I invite you to stay and read.

* * *

  

Hermione Granger walked briskly through the chilly streets of Diagon Alley. The air was cold and it whipped across her face, stinging her cheeks. She put one hand to the red beret that was nestled in her hair so that it didn’t fly off her top. She held her ever-expanding beaded bag in her other hand and tightened it against the front of the black cape she wore as she ducked her head and strode onward into the wind. It was cold, yes, freezing even on December the 23rd, four years after the battle of Hogwarts, but not a snowflake in sight. Other shoppers bustled about her, each in their own world of Christmas preparations and festivities, but Hermione paid them no mind. She had only to return her unspent gold to her vault at Gringotts and then she would be able to apparate back home and prepare herself a nice hot cup of tea.

So she hummed to herself as she walked towards the bank, checking off her mental list (checking it _twice_ , you could say) to ensure all recipients had been taken care of.

 - Harry, _done_. _New Quidditch book, dueling gloves, and slippers. Because his feet seemed to always be cold and had somehow given up the habit of socks._

 - McGonagall, _done_. _Hawk feather quill_.

 - Neville: _Quick-grow soil._

 - Ron: _a selection from Sugar Plum’s Sweet Shop_

\- Hagrid: _a fossilized owl’s egg she had come across_

\- And Teddy. A quick stop at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes had taken care of that last one.

Her _Christmas Shopping List_ now effectively checked off, she felt rather accomplished and was smiling to herself as she opened the front door of Gringotts, until a woman with long ginger hair collided with her shoulder and sent her beaded bag sprawling.

“Oi!” the woman called, bending down to scoop up her own things. Hermione knelt to collect her beaded bag and looked up to meet familiar green eyes that sent her stomach flipping against her ribs.

There was Ginny Weasley, bringing herself up to a standing position before her in the hubbub of Christmas shoppers outside Gringotts. Her red hair swirled about her in the chilly breeze, freckles prominent on her pale face and bright, white teeth shining between red lips as she juggled her own parcels in her arms. Then, breathlessly, Ginny said, “Blimey. It’s you.”

Hermione only had time to right herself before a rush of patrons flooded around them, pushing them further apart and away from the front door. She stumbled about the crowd and finally freed herself from the swarm several feet back from the entrance. Ginny was now walking straight for her again, legs striding out in front of her clad in emerald green cable knit tights that led up to a plaid green and golden skirt.

_Fight or flight_ , Hermione thought blindly and steeled herself. _Ridiculous_ , she muttered to herself. _Neither_.

“Hello,” Hermione greeted.

Ginny grinned, coming to a stop. “Look at you,” she said as she did just that. Her eyes swept over Hermione. “You look—brilliant.”

Hermione did not know quite what to do with that. Well, she knew what she _wanted_ to do with that. Her lips formed the words _so do you_ but stopped herself short. Instead she asked, “What are you doing here?”

Ginny tilted her face to the towering stone building. “You mean at a bank, two days before Christmas? Or in Britain?”

“Britain.”

“Season break,” Ginny shrugged, “I came home for the holidays, but the family had up and traveled to Romania to be with Charlie. Figures, right?”

Hermione said nothing. She felt herself heating up despite the cold. Ginny adjusted the packages in her arms, tucking them more securely and Hermione watched her. Her own cheeks were most surely flushed, and probably her neck and chest as well. Thank goodness for the cape that covered those particular areas from view. Ginny looked fiery and warm and beautiful amidst the cold bustle of the street. As though she carried her own warmth, _her own heat_ , and it illuminated around her. She was talking again, about the empty Burrow she had come home to, like Hermione was listening. She was not. She was too busy watching Ginny’s red tendrils swirl in the chilly wind.

She should have opted for flight.

Hermione shook her head, turning her face away from Ginny and stared down the street of Diagon Alley. It was absurd and juvenile of her to want to run away from Ginny after two years estrangement. Away from polite small talk and pretending things had not been what they were. She straightened, lifted a smile (albeit small) onto her mouth and looked to those green eyes again. They were startlingly bright.

“Look, Ginevra, I really need to—“

“Ginevra,” Ginny repeated, “Gosh. No one has called me that in years. No one since… you. And my mother, of course, when she’s particularly cross,” she said, nuzzling her cheek against a package to balance it, “But let me tell you, it is not the same as when you say it.”

Again, what was Hermione supposed to do with that information? No, she very well supposed it was _not_ the same as when Mrs. Weasley shouted Ginny’s full name at her from across the Burrow, as when Hermione would say it. Quietly. Almost as a whisper between them.

She fidgeted on her feet.

“Look,” Ginny said, leaning onto her hip so her shoulder was almost touching Hermione’s, “Come with me to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. We’ll warm up. Catch up. I don’t know…” she said with a small laugh, “Make up.”

There it was: admittance (even the slightest) of what had transpired between them two years before. Hermione should say something about never needing to make up. She should apologize. She should get the hell out of there before she does either.

“I don’t think so.”

She really needed a filter.

Ginny nodded, her eyes casting down to the cobblestone street. She pulled her lip into her mouth. “I better get gone, then.” When she looked back up she had an odd look on her face and Hermione immediately felt guilty. “Got to owl these gifts out to the lot. It will probably cost a small fortune to get them to Romania in time. Look, it was great to see you. Happy Christmas, Hermione,” she finished and turned to go.

Christmas.

Ginny was home for Christmas to an empty house. Presents being owled to her family abroad. Not even a house elf to celebrate with. Again, that guilt nipped at Hermione and she found herself calling after her until Ginny turned back round and Hermione stumbled her words around until suddenly she was inviting Ginny over for an Eve of Christmas party she and Harry were hosting and that it would be just lovely if Ginny would come.

Ginny grinned, her face glowing, and her hand fell to Hermione’s forearm as she held her there lightly. “Really?”

The hand felt warm, as Hermione knew it would. She pulled her arm away from it, not wanting that heat to spread. She took a step backwards to be sure.

“Really,” she said with a nod. She turned to go but Ginny once more grabbed her by the arm, bringing her back. She leaned forward, giving Hermione a brushing kiss on the cheek. It sent Hermione’s heart racing and she stumbled back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ginny winked as she walked off, leaving Hermione on the street, reeling.

 

* * *

 

She arrived home and dumped the beaded bag, beret and caplet on the floor, flinging off her boots as she stomped into the kitchen. She had apparated from the spot there where Ginny had kissed her, not even bothering to walk to the apparition point on the Alley. She needed to be gone.

Because _what the hell was that?_

She had not seen Ginny Weasley in two years. And, somehow, in those two years, Ginny had grown even more beautiful, even more aloof to her striking beauty, and … unfazed whatsoever about their sudden reunion. Then there was Hermione, standing there doing little more than staring at her hair.

Tea. She needed tea. She pushed open the door to the kitchen and waved her wand at the kettle on the stovetop. It began to whistle. She set about the cup and her tealeaves, filling the steeper and dropping it in her cup. She leaned herself against the counter and sipped, thinking. She had stupidly invited Ginny to tomorrow night’s party. Why? Why had she done that? Why did she think a room full of celebrating friends was the appropriate setting to revisit the thoughts, emotions, and the mere sight of Ginny Weasley again. Of _them_ again. And Harry…

Harry. Oh dear, Merlin—she had forgotten Harry.

She was on her second cup when he walked in. Kreacher bobbed joyfully behind him as Harry passed the elf some notebooks, a bag, and some other things he had brought home from work. The elf held these items high above his head with one hand and whirled his other in the air. A coffee pot began brewing and Harry’s favorite mug flew over as two cups of sugar heaped themselves into it.

“Wotcher ‘Mione”, Harry said, nodding in her direction. Kreacher continued his path without stopping to take Harry’s things up to his room. “Ta, Kreacher!” Harry called after him.

 When Harry looked up, he saw Hermione’s face and immediately stopped. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head slightly as she moved over to give him room to make his coffee on the narrow counter top. Then added, “Would you be opposed to one more guest tomorrow night?”

She was ready to add _And it just so happens to be the one person we’ve both slept with_ before he cut her off with a snort.

Shaking his head, he took a sip. “Would you be opposed to _two_ more guests tomorrow night?”

“I--What?”

He turned round, giving an eyeroll of dramatic proportion. “Malfoy is coming to our party.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He was at the Ministry,” Harry said with what sounded like annoyance, “doing his Bruce Wayne-thing or whatever the hell it is he does there. I was providing Kingsley a report and he walks up as though I’m not even there and cuts in on _my_ conversation with _my_ boss. Next thing, Kingsley goes ahead and invites him. To _my_ party.”

Yes, there was definitely an annoyance there.

“Bloody prick,” Harry sneered.

“Harry!”

“Not Kingsley!” he corrected. Then, noticing her expression, “Come on,” he said, “Malfoy thinks he’s this bloody big shot now that he’s defected. Popping in to the Ministry, running that orphanage foundation of his, attending all kinds of stupid events of the sort. Named _Most Fanciable Bachelor_ three years in a row.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Harry?”

He blanched. “Oh, come off it Hermione! _I’m_ not interested. I just notice.”

She eyed him. “Don’t you attend some of those same events?”

He huffed. “It’s just annoying that he’s constantly around. Poking about. Always alone. What’s he up to?”

Hermione patted Harry on the arm, “Turning his life around, I think,” she said honestly, “But how is he two extra guests? Is the most fanciable bachelor bringing a date?”

Harry sniggered at that. “Funny you should put it that way. He’s bringing Snape.”

"Oh Godric,” Hermione groaned, “This _is_ going to be some party.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked. “Who did you invite?”

Hermione sipped her tea evasively. She knew he was waiting for her to answer, but she took her time in tasting and swallowing the mouthful of tea. Finally, she said, “I ran into someone in Diagon Alley and she would have been all alone for Christmas if I didn’t invite her. I sort of…had to.”

“Who, Hermione?” he asked pointedly.

She sighed. “Ginny Weasley.” 

He almost spit out his coffee. It dribbled over his chin and he wiped it away with a sleeve. “You ran into Ginny? And invited her to our Christmas party?”

Hermione nodded. “Is that okay?”

He let out a throaty laugh. “You’re asking me if I’m okay with you inviting our mutual ex-girlfriend over for Christmas?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged, in a typical Harry fashion and set his coffee mug down. Crossing his arms, he appraised her. “Are _you_ okay with that? Are you okay with even seeing her today?”

She rolled her eyes, trying to fake it. “Oh, stop. That was years ago.”

“Right,” he agreed, “It was years ago and kind of fucked up for everyone for a bit.”

She frowned at him. Not that he wasn’t telling the truth. She just didn’t like being called out on it.

“She gave no indication of such,” Hermione said bluntly, “You would hardly know from the way she acted that anything had happened between us.”

“That’s Ginny,” Harry nodded, “She doesn’t…dwell. She moves forward. At Nimbus speed. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she--” He stopped, looking at Hermione.

“If she what?”

He looked down into his mug. “Tried something.”

“Like what?”

“You know what,” he said, raising one eyebrow at her, “Question is: do you want her to?”

She evaded that question like it was spattergroit. She turned her back to her best friend and dumped the rest of her tea, now only tepid, down the drain.

“Just thank Merlin Ron is abroad,” she said, turning and giving a side look to Harry.

“Small miracles,” he said, lifting is mug a little in gratitude and then swigged the rest of his coffee. They looked to each other; mutual thoughts shared between them went unsaid. Finally, Harry muttered, “This will be some party after all.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

On Christmas Eve, it was little more than an hour before the start of their party. Kreacher was hurrying about, setting trays of food on various surfaces throughout the first floor of 12 Grimmauld Place. Bottles of champagne followed behind him in a parade to ultimately settle at the bar in the living room next to stacked glass flutes.

Harry and Hermione were there, wands in hands outstretched, arranging glittering lights about the ceiling. Hermione had already charmed the apparition foyer to have lightly falling snow that evaporated before reaching the floor. Harry had spelled the piano to play Christmas songs. These were the finishing touches, as the room already had a glowing fire in the hearth, wreaths of holly hung, and evergreen garlands draped on every corner. Their tree, which Hermione had insisted be shrunk down to fit more guests in the space, sat atop the piano, with gold and red glass balls hanging from its boughs and a star at it’s peak.

When the lights were in place, Harry lowered his wand and reached into his back pocket. He produced a small scarlet box and, smirking, began to open it.

“What is that?” Hermione asked, tucking her wand away.

“Meandering Mistletoe.” He struggled with the box, finally getting it open and lifted a small leaf between his fingers. He held it up victoriously and then tossed her the empty box. “From George’s shop.”

She caught it and scanned the box, turning it over in her fingers skeptically. “And it’s not some sort of prank? It’s not going to turn someone’s breath sour if they try to kiss under it?”

He laughed at that and then righted his glasses. “No. But that’s a good idea. You should owl that to him. This is from the holiday cheer line. All sorts of little things like this. I ordered a couple for tonight. There’s also a spell on the mirror in the water closet that reflects a Father Christmas beard on the viewer.” He grinned. “Thought it would be festive.” He then tapped his wand to the end of the sprig and levitated it up to the ceiling where it settled in and bloomed a full, dangling cluster.

She looked up at the plant. “You know mistletoe is a parasite, right? And poisonous. Not to mention this is magical mistletoe obtained from a morally questionable joke shop owner.”

Harry looked up as well. “Right. Maybe we should test it.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him and he returned it with an eye roll before seizing her by the hand and pulling her under it. “I promise not to let you eat it,” he said wryly. Then he bowed and planted a kiss to her hand, which he was still holding. They looked up in time to see the mistletoe crawl back into the ceiling and vanish completely. A moment later, it re-sprouted several feet across the room.

“Brilliant,” he nodded, “Don’t you feel more festive now?”

She was still staring at the plant. Thoughts of Ginny pestered her. Thoughts of mistletoe finding the two of them together and blooming above their heads. Cringing thoughts of the awkward moment when they would have to decide whether or not to kiss beneath it.

“Hermione,” he said, noticing her worry, “just look up before you stand next to anyone you don’t want to snog, okay?” He gave her a half-smile. “Besides, you’ve got me to watch out for you; intercept any awkward run-ins.”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling myself at my own Christmas party.”

“If you say so,” he shrugged, waggling his eyebrows at her. In spite of herself, she laughed.

“You’re a nutter,” she shook her head.

“Come on, ‘Mione,” he said, backing away, “Time to get dressed.”

She looked to the clock and, undeniably, it was. The two of them walked up the two flights of stairs, parting at their separate rooms to ready themselves for the night’s events.

The mistletoe they had left behind disappeared once more from the living room…only to sprout itself in the foyer amidst the freshly conjured snow.

* * *

Holiday music played merrily through the first floor of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. It was just loud enough to be heard in every room, but not so brashly that talk could not be heard. The piano pounded out cheery tunes of “ _She Charmed Me Twice On Christmas_ ”, “ _Winter Wand-erland_ ” and “ _Of Holly, Hearth and Hufflepuffs_.”

Almost all of the guests had arrived and were mingling happily throughout the space, snacking on trays of food that floated and helping themselves to copious servings of champagne, eggnog and butterbeer. Xenophilius Lovegood was in an animated conversation with Andromeda Tonks, the latter chuckling in a high back chair as Xenophilius flailed his arms and legs in an impression of some rare bird before her. Teddy Lupin, now five, chased Crookshanks through the living room and into the kitchen. Crooks was highly offended of such activity, but allowed the child to chase him rather than seek refuge on Hermione’s bed on the third floor.

Hagrid, sipping from a flask the size of a kitchen sink, donned a speckled tie that reeked of an odor he claimed was Frankincense, but was so repellant no one dared approach him. Xenophilius would later go on to explain that the tie was made of Yorsex fur, and the stench was typical of the pelt. Minerva McGonagall had stopped by; her hair in its usual tight bun but with a sprig of holly stuck in it for flare. She had presented them with a bottle of aged firewhiskey and sparkling pumpkin juice (for Harry) and then wished them a Happy Christmas before heading back to her post as Headmistress of Hogwarts. Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson were dancing a lively beat with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, mugs of eggnog sloshing between them. Luna Lovegood chatted with a portrait in a corner.

Hermione was with Neville Longbottom. He was now apprentice to Professor Sprout at Hogwarts, and would be taking over her post there at her impending retirement. He was lamenting over the fact that Hermione had turned down the adjunct Muggle Studies post back in September and that, if she had taken it, they would have been teaching there together. As he spoke, his eyes flitted back and forth to the back of Luna’s head, where golden blonde hair was tied up in an intricate braid and dusted with tiny, frozen snowflakes she had placed there.

Hermione eyes were watchful of the door. She had tried to turn her attention from it, but it always seemed to find its way back. Harry once caught her in the act and she had immediately walked in the opposite direction, pretending to clear some empty plates that had been stacked on the bookcase next to her. But Kreacher had come and whisked them away from her before she could busy herself with them, thus subjecting her to an all-too-knowing look from Harry.

Now he was laughing with a group his Auror mates from the Ministry, his head thrown back as he clapped one of them on the shoulder, and the sound of his laughter carried across the room. Hermione had not even heard the door open, but only the sound of other partygoers greeting the newcomer with a cheery “Happy Christmas!”

She turned, with an image of red hair and emerald-clad legs dancing through her head so clear she almost saw them before her. But, no, there were two new guests entering her home, not one, and there was nary a strand of ginger between them.

Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape were standing in the foyer, snow collecting on their heads and shoulders and both of them looking downright miserable about it.

Happy Christmas, indeed.

Kreacher had come to gather their coats. Draco removed his large, furred ushanka hat and tightly fitted coat, while Snape begrudgingly offered his own black cloak to the elf. Draco was dressed in a black suit, of course. His closet must be void of all else, for whenever his picture was featured in the _Prophet_ , he was sporting a black suit with his, now infamous, eye-patch that obscured where his left eye had been. Not to be forgotten was his ever-slicked-back platinum hair, which was longer than it had been in their formative years. It now grazed his shoulders.

Hermione pried her eyes away from the dark duo in the foyer and sent them checking for Harry. There he was, still among his friends, but now with his head turned to the front door. The group was talking, except for Harry, whose mouth was tightly shut as he stood there with full attention on Malfoy and Snape.

“Ah, Draco!” Minister Shacklebolt boomed, “And Mr. Snape! Welcome and Happy Christmas!” He did a sweeping turn in his shimmering plum robes and greeted them as if this were his own party. “Let me get you a drink.” He stopped and poured them each a glass of eggnog in lowball glasses and handed them over respectively. Others had come over, crowding around the two. They were mostly young, female Ministry workers, Hermione noted. She chanced another look to Harry, but he was now nowhere to be seen.

She sighed and turned back to Neville, deciding to let Kingsley play host and let Harry stew in his Malfoy-fueled foul mood. She would look for him later.

Neville had also noticed the new arrivals. He swirled eggnog in his glass, took a sip and spoke to her.

“It’s odd, right?” he said quietly, “Having them around?”

She looked back to the pair. Snape was looking all the more annoyed as several of the girls were closing in on Malfoy, slowly edging the former from the circle and forcing him to talk with Kingsley.

“A little, yes. I haven’t really spoken to either of them since …” she trailed. _The war_ went unsaid. 

Neville nodded knowingly. “Malfoy’s been around the school a little, helping fund some of the portrait restoration. I haven’t seen Snape in years. They’re all right blokes, I guess,” he shrugged. “But… old memories die hard.”

“You don’t think they’ve truly reformed?”

“Of course I do,” he said, “After Harry cleared Snape’s name and he surrendered those memories on trial. And then, well, after what Malfoy did for us in the war… That all adds up. It’s just…” He paused, looking back to the pair, “Well, it still doesn’t change that they were right dicks back then, eh?”

With that he laughed, first quiet and soft in his throat, as though keeping it to himself, but when he saw Hermione’s concurring grin, his laugh doubled in volume and might. 

It was disrupted by loud cheering from across the room. They both looked up in panic that someone had overheard Neville’s comment. But then they saw Xenophilius bend and kiss Andromeda Tonks lightly on her smiling lips as people around them whistled and used forks to clink their glasses. The Meandering Mistletoe had bloomed above them, as Hermione had suspected. When the pair broke apart, they both laughed, hugged and Xenophilus gave a little bow. It was the first mistletoe delight of the party and everyone looked brighter and indeed more festive for it. Hermione looked round once more for Harry, so she could indulge him in the satisfactory grin he was bound to give her, but he was still missing.

They all raised their cups and toasted to the merriment, and chatter began as the mistletoe recoiled into the ceiling and the partygoers excitedly speculated its next location and quarry.

Hermione lowered her glass, putting her lips to it to drink, so caught up in the entertainment that she hadn’t noticed the newest attendee who had entered in the middle of the raucous. Until suddenly, Neville was smiling as he greeted someone who was coming up behind her.

“ _Ginny!_ ”

Hermione whirled around and, yes, there was Ginny Weasley. It was not emerald tights, but a green sweater dress she donned, with a matching bow in her hair to lift one side off her face. She was standing there, grinning at Hermione and Hermione sputtered her champagne into her cup.

“Looks like I just missed something fun,” Ginny smirked, her eyes flitting about the room to those who were still giggling over the snog between Lovegood and Tonks.

Neville sniggered. “Watch out for the mistletoe, that’s all I’ll say. Happy Christmas, Ginny. Merlin—it’s been…what? Two? No, three years since I’ve seen you last,” he said, shaking his head with amazement.

“You made it,” Hermione said. Her fingers tightened around her champagne flute. She tried not to look directly at her.

Ginny looked to her. “I did. I said I would come.”

“A little late,” she noted.

“My calling card,” Ginny said wryly, “You know I’m perpetually unpunctual.”

“Not too late to join the fun! I can’t believe so many of us from the old group are here,” Neville said, “Too bad Ron couldn’t make it. You didn’t join them all in Romania?" 

Ginny shook her head, “No. By the time I came home they had left.”

“All alone for the holidays? That’s terrible,” Neville frowned.

“Not exactly,” she said, turning a bit to search the room with her eyes. She stopped, as though seeing the place for the first time, “Wow! Look at it in here. Merlin, it’s festive. The faerie lights, the holly and fire. And,” her eyes rested on Hermione. “You. All decked out in red. You know I love that color on you.” 

Hermione looked down to her own frock, putting her fingers to the satin. “Yes,” she breathed, “I remember.”

She could feel Neville’s stare at the back of her head, but paid him no mind. She felt warm and tried to contradict that by taking a sip from her champagne. Then added to Ginny, “Oh! I should offer you a glass. Drink?”

“Actually,” Ginny said with a little chagrin, as though just remembering something, “Someone is on that already.”

Expecting to see Kreacher come bobbing forward with a glass of something or other in his hand, Hermione followed Ginny’s gaze. Instead, a tall, blonde haired woman was walking forward, a champagne flute in each hand, until she was beside Ginny and handing her one.

“Hermione, Neville,” Ginny said, “You remember Hannah Abbott?”

“Hannah, yes!” Neville greeted and took her hand to shake it.

“Nice to see you all again. Happy Christmas,” Hannah smiled, “Thank you for having us over, Hermione.”

Hermione stared back at her. But before she could answer, Ginny spoke, staring past Hermione at right at Neville. “How have you been?” Ginny asked pointedly to him.

“Oh, just lovely,” Neville said, rocking back on his heels a little, “At the school, now. Apprentice to Sprout. Having a brilliant time. You’re with the Holyhead Harpies now, eh, Ginny? I’ve followed a bit of your career with them. You know, keeping up on old friends and all that.” He smiled genuinely.

“Oh, me too! For instance, I know all about you, Neville,” Hannah admitted with a blush, “I read every _Skeeter’s Sleaze_ in _Witch Weekly_.”

“Skeeter’s _what_?” Hermione repeated.

“Sleaze,” said Neville. “It’s a gossip column. Surely you’ve seen it? You’ve been in it, Hermione.” He answered with a bit of a shake of his head as though he didn’t believe her.

“I have?”

“Oh yes,” Hannah nodded, “She’s always writing updates on the _H.O.G.S_.”

Hermione blinked, as this clarified nothing.

“‘Heroes Our Generation Salutes’,” Neville explained, “Skeeter’s term for those who fought in the battle.”

“She calls us hogs?” Hermione said with a wrinkle of her nose. She turned from Neville to Ginny. Ginny suppressed a laugh.

Hannah kept going.

“There’s little tidbits on what everyone’s been up to. For example, I knew Neville has the apprenticeship at Hogwarts. That Ginny’s with the Harpies. Luna and her father have been exploring Atlantis,” she said with a nod to where Luna stood, “Harry Potter’s master Aurorship at the Ministry and rubbing elbows with the Minister himself.”

Hermione blanched at that. “Kingsley is a friend of ours. And I hardly would call reporting to your superior officer at work ‘rubbing elbows’.”

“It’s called _Sleaze_ for a reason, Hermione,” Neville said into his glass, taking another drink.

“But it’s all true, isn’t it?” Hannah asked, “It was right about the rest of you.” She looked around again, spotting Draco and Snape, “About Malfoy’s mysterious bachelorhood and how handsome he is—even with that eye patch—but never shows up to any event with a date. Or Snape,” she said lowering her voice as though he could hear, “Who has all but disappeared from the wizarding world. Skeeter reports that he checks in on Malfoy, who is his godson by the way—who knew. Other than that,” she said, voice even lower, “He’s just holed up at Spinner’s End surrounded by muggles.”

Hermione looked back to where Snape was chatting in a cumbersome manner with Kingsley, Malfoy and a few other Ministry people that had joined their circle. Snape’s one hand rested on the deep amber-colored cane he carried now. Other than that, he had not appeared to age since she had been his student five years prior. 

“Can you blame him?” Neville asked sincerely, “I would think he’d want some peace and privacy. Although it still doesn’t keep him out of the _Sleaze_ , does it?” He gave a wink and took another swig of his eggnog.

“There’s not much about you in it,” Hannah said, now turning to Hermione. “Just that you’re living with Harry, and that you refused the Muggle Studies post at Hogwarts in September. Nothing before that or since.”

“Good,” Hermione muttered. There were certainly several things she did _not_ want Rita Skeeter finding out.

Neville chuckled into his glass, “Cheers to that,” and gulped again. “Although I do wish you had taken the job. If only to have another friend at work. Honestly, the closest mate I have there is Barty Crouch Sr.’s ghost.”

“Why _did_ you turn it down?” Hannah asked, “I would think it would be just the right fit for you.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow at her, “Because I’m muggleborn?”

“No!” Hannah said, “No, I didn’t mean it like that at all! I just meant—“

Ginny, who was looking more and more embarrassed as the conversation went on, interjected, her voice definitive. “Hermione’s more than that job at Hogwarts. She’s got more to offer than a teaching post. No offense, Neville,” She added with a grimace.

“None taken,” he said candidly.

Hermione looked to Ginny in surprise. She had not expected a compliment from her like that… one that suggested she knew Hermione more intimately than anyone else. She tried to recover. “McGonagall only offered it to me because she knew I wouldn’t take it. And she was right. It wasn’t the right fit.” She left off with a shrug as nonchalantly as she could muster.

“So,” Neville said starting up the conversation again, “What’s the sleaze on you, Hannah?" 

She laughed. “I’m doing independent study abroad. At Beauxbatons, actually. That’s where I met up with Ginny again.” She said, elbowing Ginny in the side with a grin. “She had a Quidditch match in France and I went to see her play. We caught up after the game and hit it off.”

Ginny interjected in an attempt to smooth it over. “You know. Talked. Reconnected. That sort of thing.”

Hannah gave Ginny a questioning look, and Hermione was beginning to understand. Before she could fully connect the facts however, the sound of clinking glass surrounded them. She looked around and saw that everyone was applauding and cheering in their direction. Save for two. Her eyes caught those of Snape, who was standing stoically beside a just as still Malfoy amongst the sea of eager cheerers, his eyes locked in her direction. 

“Ha!” Neville laughed, “You’re under the mistletoe, Ginny.”

Hermione whirled back to see Ginny look up quizzically to a bloom of green and white that dangled just above her hair. Hermione only had time to worry ‘ _must I kiss her?’_ in one frantic, fleeting thought before Hannah’s smooth palm pressed to Ginny’s cheek, pulling her in to a deep kiss in front of her. Hermione could see Ginny’s eyes watching her, before they eventually mirrored Hannah’s and closed. She could see Hannah’s tongue slip past Ginny’s lips, and could all but hear Neville’s jaw drop beside her.

The cheers grew louder, but to Hermione they were fading. She was backing away, realizing how incredibly stupid she had been, and began her hasty retreat out of the living room.

* * *

Hermione locked herself in the first floor bathroom, leaning over the sink as she caught her breath. Ginny and Hannah. Ginny had brought Hannah here. To her party. To her home. And kissed her. _Kissed her!_ In front of her.

Hermione looked up, still in shock. The mirror in front of her reflected her own face…with a Father Christmas beard on her chin.

“Ugh!” she cried and flicked her hand at the mirror to vanish it, but instead, the faceless beard began to talk in a low baritone.

“Ho, ho, _NO_! Vanishing spells won’t work on Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes! I’m putting you on the Naughty list! Nice try, though. That was a strong one.”

“Oh, _shut up!_ ” she yelled at it.

“Hermione? Is that you in there?” Ginny’s voice came from behind the door.

“Don’t come in,” she ordered. 

“ _Alohomora_.” There was a click, and the door opened.

Hermione threw her arms up in a huff and turned away from the door. Honestly what was the point of locks at all if _Alohomora_ existed in the universe? 

“Hermione,” Ginny said softly, but Hermione refused to turn around.

“What the hell was that?” she asked instead, keeping her back to Ginny.

Ginny rushed, “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I didn’t even see that mistletoe. Where the bloody hell did it come from?”

“It’s Meandering Mistletoe.”

Ginny sighed, understanding. “George’s. Figures. All the way in Romania and he’s still fitting in his laughs.”

Hermione didn’t respond.

“Are you going to turn around and talk to me?”

Hermione breathed in deeply and turned to Ginny. “How long have you been with Hannah?”

“Eight months,” Ginny said.

“The way you’ve been acting. Flirting with me yesterday and just now… in there… when your girlfriend was in the room...” Hermione shook her head.

“Can you blame me?” Ginny asked, raising her eyebrows, “Look at you.”

“That’s not an answer,” Hermione frowned, “Together eight months and you didn’t say a word about her. You just brought her here and kissed her in front of me. Was that to hurt me?”

“To hurt you?” Ginny looked offended. “Do you think I planned bumping into you yesterday after two years apart in hopes that you would invite me to a Christmas party just so I could to snog someone in front of you?” She paused, let out a breath and softened her voice. “I would never want to hurt you. I might be shitty but I’m not that shitty.”

“ _I_ hurt _you_.” 

“Everyone got hurt,” Ginny dismissed, “Two years ago. So we parted ways. I’d been staying away and then it was Christmas and-”

“And you knew your family would be in Romania so you brought Hannah home to the Burrow to be alone with her,” Hermione surmised. She wanted to kick herself. “I’m an idiot.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that last part because we both know ‘idiot’ is no word anyone would use to describe you. Yes, I knew the family was abroad when I came here. But I didn’t know I was going to see you in Diagon Alley.” Ginny took a small step forward in the tiny room, putting her hand to the marble basin of the sink as she leaned in a little.

“You told me you were going to be alone for Christmas,” Hermione accused, “It guilted me into inviting you.”

“I never said I was going to be alone. I said I came home to an empty Burrow—which was true. You assumed the rest.”

“You let me assume it.”

Ginny said nothing, which only confirmed it for Hermione. 

“You should have told me you were bringing Hannah.”

Ginny glanced down, but took another step in. “I know. I wanted to, once you and I had a drink at the pub and smoothed things over between us,” she looked back up, blinking those big, wide eyes to Hermione, “Then you rushed off so I thought that was that. But when you called me back and invited me over for Christmas after all we’ve been through,” her lips turned up at the corners and then Ginny leaned further towards her and Hermione could feel the warmth radiating off of her.

“Hermione… you were standing there in that freezing wind with your cute little hat, and pink, flushed nose and your hair just so crazy and wild,” she said, with the hint of a laugh, “…I wished for a second I didn’t have Hannah at home with me. I wished we were back in Australia together. Just the two of us.”

Hermione stared back at her. Oh, how easy would it be to picture the two of them, on escapade abroad? With the people and questions and responsibilities of real life abandoned in Britain (although, only to come in time to hunt them down in the form of Ron). With just their all-encompassing missive and their all-encompassing appetite for each other. 

But what good did these memories do her here? In Harry Potter’s water closet, with years apart and shattered relationships between them?

Ginny’s smile faded. “I couldn’t _not_ bring Hannah with me. I almost didn’t come at all.” She took another few steps towards her, her face searching Hermione’s for sign she was unwanted. “Do you want me to go?” Ginny breathed, “I’ll explain why to her.”

That brought Hermione back to present. She stepped back at once, her voice sharp. “ _Hannah doesn’t know about us?_ ”

Ginny bit her lip…and that was answer enough.

Hermione gave an indignant laugh. “Of course not.” She felt the fool all over again as she brushed past Ginny. “Excuse me, I have a party to get to.”

“Hermione—“

“Stay,” she said as her hand gripped the door handle, “Enjoy your Christmas.”

“Wait!" 

Hermione looked back, anger and embarrassment fighting for full control of her senses when Ginny asked in a tentative voice, “Are you going to mass tonight?”

That only fuelled her further. “Of course I am.”

“I can come with you, if you want. So you won’t be alone.”

Hermione’s lips formed a tight line, and she forced herself to quip a short “Unnecessary,” before opening the door and striding from the room.

She walked, did not run, briskly into the kitchen, her heels trailing clicks as she went. She knew Ginny would not follow her. Thank Godric for that.

* * *

Harry was in there when she swung the kitchen door open. He was in the middle of stuffing a treacle tart in his mouth when she walked in and she couldn’t help but be annoyed by his fully benign presence at that moment.

“Well!” she announced, “Here you are, then. Are you planning to hide in the kitchen the entire night?”

“I’m not hiding,” Harry said defensively, “I’m in here helping Kreacher.”

“Well, good for you,” she said hotly, striding over to the counter where they had placed McGonagall’s presents earlier and snagged the bottle of firewhiskey.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said, “Enjoy the party! Mingle.” With that she bumped the door to the hall with her rear and backed out of it, leaving a look of shock on Harry’s face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> Draco's eye-patch: This is reference to a version of Draco my cousin (the person I gifted this fic to) had written in a dramione fic where he had been tortured by his father and left with only one eye. Eye-patch Draco is somehow all the more hotter. 
> 
> Barty Crouch Sr's ghost: I'm obsessed with Barty Crouch Sr. He became larger than life as an inside joke. It then turned into headcanon that his ghost still haunts Hagrid's pumpkin patch and he floats through the hallways of Hogwarts, lamenting his own demise and heckling students who are breaking rules.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Earlier, Hermione and Harry had set wards on each of the upstairs rooms to prevent any interlopers from nosing about. Hermione now released the ward on the second floor library with one sweep of her wand and let herself in, opened the bottle of whiskey and began to drink it in deep, fiery swallows, coughing as it burned its way through her esophagus.

After a short time, the door opened and she expected to see Harry in its frame, but instead met the dark gaze of Severus Snape.

“What are you doing here?” she gasped.

He sneered in response. “Seeking quiet. This was the only room unwarded.”

“You went snooping around the house checking wards on rooms?”

Snape crossed his arms across his chest, his chin lifting. “An experienced wizard with a modicum of skill can sense wards without the need to test them.”

_Oh._

He then raised one eyebrow, appraisingly. “What year is that bottle?”

She checked, bringing the bottle closer to her face to read the print. 

“’83.”

“Firewhiskey of that caliber deserves more subtlety than your drunken guzzling,” he said in a way that was somehow more condescending than picking apart her potions essays.

“I am _not_ drunk,” she defended. 

He sniffed, as though checking her breath from across the room. “Indeed. Nevertheless, it merits a proper hand. Allow me.” 

“It might not have occurred to you, but I came in here to be alone,” she said, frowning as she watched him swoop into the room.

“Exactly. We’ll drink in silence.” He raised his wand, and she felt the gust of air that signaled the reset of her wards upon the library.

“ _Excuse me_.” Her anger, which had been shocked into submission by his sudden entrance, now flared once more.

He ignored her as he sat down on the chair separated from hers by only a small, circular table. He conjured two glasses and poured her two fingers of drink; himself four. Then he sipped his own slowly, with a quick swallow.

“The secret for virgin-drinkers, as for any unsavory potion, is not to breathe through your nose whilst you partake.”

“I am _not_ a virgin-drinker. And I don’t need you to tell me how to drink,” she said sternly. Then, all semblance of ferocity vanished with a hiccup.

“Clearly.”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t find it unsavory. It just…burns my tongue,” she said, turning away from him and her glass on the table. 

“It is firewhiskey. It is _meant_ to burn.”

And she had thought he had been patronizing her before.

“Never drink your firewhiskey with ice,” he continued absently, swirling the liquid in his glass, “Dilutes the quality. It also dilutes the _burn on your tongue,_ as you so eloquently put it, however you will never truly appreciate its flavor without it.”

She shot him a side-eye. And found that her glass was now floating in front of her at eye-level.

What a pushy, pompous arse.

She took the glass, if for no more than to stop its ceaseless bobbing in front of her. Then she sighed, held her breath and took a small sip with a quick swallow. Exactly as he had done.

_Oh_ , that was much nicer. There was the burn, but instead of scalding hot, it was dull and muted against her throat. She could feel it warming her belly. Not that she wanted to give him any indication of it.

He seemed to have noticed regardless, because the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he took another long draw from his glass.

She eyed him. _Professor Snape._ Evidently no more pleasant to be around now than he had been as her potions teacher. And yet, here he sat next to her in Harry Potter’s own house at a party they had thrown. Despite, from what she had heard, rarely even venturing from his muggle home into the wizarding world. She found her eyes narrowing at him. How was it possible he was all the more cryptic now than he had been back then?

Snape eyed her right back. “I thought it was clear that I had sought privacy, not to be the subject of your gawking. If you want to stare at your party guests, there is an ample quantity of them downstairs who have not sought social respite.”

“I can’t go back down there,” she said, nestling further into the upholstered chair, “I’m dodging my ex-girlfriend and her new lover.” She swished the contents of her glass around once and then took another long sip.

She could almost feel his sneer.

“You and the Weasley girl? Well, isn’t that…progressive of you.”

“What? You thought I was some kind of virgin-drinker, virgin-everything no doubt, prude? Of course you did,” she shook her head with an added eye roll.

“It has never crossed the expanse of my mind the state of your hymen, Miss Granger. Do not insinuate as such. Unfortunately, I am not unaware that you have made your way through two of the Weasley brood now. Is that not progressive? Or are you attempting all six?”

_What?!_

“Excuse me!” she exclaimed for the second time in twenty minutes, “How dare you talk to me like that! I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation with you.” She put her hand to her face, trying to think how the subject of her hymen had even come _up_ in conversation with Professor Snape. 

“Might I remind you, that _you_ are the one who broached the subject of your love life with _me?"_

“I was only—“ she started in a huff. Then, exasperated, she grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey and took a large gulp from its spout, “Propriety be damned,” she coughed, the burn now raging in her mouth, “Inviting Ginny was the _proper_ thing to do and look where I am for it. Hiding out with my old potions master at my own party.” She scowled. “While she’s down there snogging Hannah bloody Abbott under every bough. When she… she…” She trailed off and took another swig.

He was quiet beside her, not that she noticed. She was too busy with her own thoughts.

“She had the audacity to invite herself to escort me to mass tonight,” she said in a lower, quieter voice but one still thick with anger. “She doesn’t want me to have to go alone. I don’t care about going alone. And I surely don’t need her to come with me tonight to light a bloody candle.”

She had not realized her grip on the neck of the bottle had come undone, until Snape’s hand was tilting the remains of the firewhiskey into her cup. She listened to the sound of it fill the empty space as the last drop was poured. The amber colored liquid stilled in the glass and Snape’s voice filled the room.

“You attend muggle church services?” He had sat back in his chair, and now his face was half covered in shadow from the lit sconce above them. His one visible eye was trained on her. She looked away from it.

“At Christmas,” she answered, “You probably think its rubbish. But I _was_ raised muggle, you know. Religion is a part of my life.”

“Always the know-it-all. I would appreciate your refrain from assuming my own thoughts and opinions, regardless of the subject. You may have forgotten that _I_ was raised half-Muggle-- although I myself have tried to forget. I’m aware of muggle Christian rituals.”

She breathed deeper and pushed back into the upholstery. Her anger now subsiding a bit, surely because of the amount of whiskey she had ingested. And her rant.

“My parents took me as a child to midnight mass every Christmas Eve. It really starts at 11 o’clock,” she said quickly, explaining, “But at the end of the service, the entire congregation sings _Silent Night_ and all those with a special prayer come up to the altar to light a candle. At the end of the song, it is midnight…and Christmas Day. It’s very lovely,” she breathed, her eyes ghosting over with memories. “We only lit a candle the year I was admitted to Hogwarts,” she said with a small laugh, “It felt so special. Like a prayer answered. You see, there was finally an explanation for my…gifts. I was a witch. It felt like a miracle.”

“And yet you will light one tonight.”

It was not a question, but it brought her from her revelry. Hermione turned back to his half-lit face. She had almost forgotten he was there.

“I’ve lit a candle for the last four years asking for another miracle.”

He had not touched his drink in some time. He was too busy watching her.

“What is that miracle, Miss Granger?”

She smiled. A very small, very sad smile. “I ask for my parents to be brought back to life.”

The air was silent and pregnant with what she had said, and there was an unexpected lack of coldness in his voice when he spoke again. “You know that death is nothing but absolute in its finality. There is no spell or prayer that will change that.”

She shook her head. “You misunderstand me. They are not deceased. My parents have been in a coma for over four years. They are, in the technical sense, alive. But they do not live.” 

“There are potions-“ he began.

“That have failed,” she finished, “Don’t you think I’ve tried? Don’t you think I’ve brewed them myself? I keep searching for a cure. The root of their coma is Dark Magic, but it is self-induced. The things they must have endured... to retreat so far back into themselves,” she shuddered and her whole body trembled, “I did not hide them well enough from Death Eaters.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I was unaware of your parents’ condition."

She took another sip and winced as the burn crept up to her eyes. “Only a handful of people know. Harry, Ron. McGonagall, Pomfrey. And…Ginny.” Hermione paused, “She was there with me when I found them: abandoned and unconscious in a small hut in the vast desert in Australia. She was with me when I lit my first candle in eleven years on Christmas Eve. That’s why she thinks I will want her there tonight.”

Hermione sniffed and finished off the last of her drink. “She helped me find my parents. When I was out there and alone, searching a place I had never been in my life, Ginny showed up, fresh from her break-up with Harry. And we had…we had this whirlwind, semi-psychotic road trip hunting for my parents. Trekking around Australia’s muggle and wizard communities. We were reckless. We had to be,” she said darkly, “The places we went. Vampire covens. Werewolf dens,” she recounted.

Snape hissed in a sharp breath.

“We were out of our minds,” Hermione said as an assent to his disapproval, “Brewing ourselves Euphoria and Dreamless Sleep potions and the like and administering them to the other. It was ridiculous. We thought we were in love. Or…something,” she swallowed, embarrassed she had shared that last part. “There’s a bit of _sleaze_ you won’t get from Rita Skeeter,” she said shakily and cleared her throat. “It didn’t end well. We brought my parents home and it was all very different. We went separate ways. We _wanted_ to go separate ways. Then I see her here tonight…on a date at my party. And she thinks I need her there with me. I can go to mass on my own. I have for the last two years.”

“Not even Potter?”

“He offers,” she said, setting her empty glass back down to the table, “But he has his own demons. It’s hard for him to face the idea of loss. I never let him come.”

“You mean to tell me, Miss Granger, that you not only fought one war, but you battled out another in Australia in search for your mother and father? Invading lairs of the most feared magical creatures and Merlin knows what bloody else you haven’t told me, and you can’t go downstairs and face a witch your age because she’s snogging someone else?" 

She gave a humorless laugh. “Exactly.”

“I could call you a coward.”

“And what would you call a wizard that survived two wizarding wars, life as a double agent and a fatal snake attack, yet isolates himself from our world entirely?” 

He growled under his breath. “If one has spent the greater portion of their life serving two masters and somehow finds himself alive and free of both of them…one would seek a more ordinary life.”

She met his eyes. “Except you are not ordinary.”

“Enough.” His gaze moved across the room to the unlit fireplace nestled between the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “Is that connected to the Floo?”

She shook her head. “Just the one in the sitting room.”

“Pity,” he drawled.

“Why? Is Spinner’s End connected?” she prodded, not without snark. 

He leaned forward, gripping his glass once more and emptied it in one swallow. Then he said, rather reluctantly, “I have no desire to have witches or wizards come flooding into my home at any hour they so please. However, at times such as this… it would be a reprieve.” 

Offended, she reminded him, “ _You_ came in here and sat down. And started drinking my spirits, I might add.”

“Rather than see you waste them away to spite a scorned paramour,” he retorted.

“Ugh!” She groaned, “By all means, go back downstairs and find your godson.”

“Just how much of that gossip _do_ you read, Miss Granger?”

“Does that mean it’s not true? About Malfoy?” She watched him for an answer, sitting up.

He gave a long sigh. “It seems within Miss Skeeter’s ability to publish a truth every now and again. Draco is indeed my godchild. A fact unknown to the both of us until after the reading of his parents’ will. Why the Mafloys entrusted the guidance of their only living heir to me is still a mystery. Nevertheless, I am bound by their final testament.” 

_He cares for him_ , she realized. _And not just now._ _He has always cared about Draco._ Then she understood just what made Snape leave his voluntarily withdrawn lifestyle to periodically emerge in the wizarding world, including his presence now at hers and Harry’s party: Draco merely asked.

She voiced none of her new findings to him. Rather, she said frankly, “It was nice of you to come tonight. The both of you.”

“That would have the appearance of sincerity if my invitation had originated from either host.”

She blushed. “Well…”

“As it turns out, this evening has been…adequate.”

Well there was the biggest compliment she could ever expect from Snape. She couldn’t help herself. She began to giggle. Until she was full out laughing. And hiccupping. And, _oh Godric be damned!_ , she was laughing and hiccupping and _snorting_.

He was looking at her as though she had gone insane. And that made her laugh even harder.

Maybe she had gone mad. Or maybe she was just the tiny bit pissed.

“I hate to disrupt whatever sort of fit you are having, but it is nearly eleven o’clock. You do have a customary muggle sacrament to attend, do you not?”

It— _what?_

She sat up and looked to the clock on the hearth. It was ten to the last hour of Christmas Eve, and if she wanted to make midnight mass in time, she needed to leave now. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, standing. She was pleased to know that she was steady on her feet, despite the alcohol, and still fully intact of her senses and capabilities. She smoothed her dress and attempted to smooth her hair but then gave up as she knew it was fruitless. She felt dark eyes on her from beneath the shadows of his face but paid them no mind. She stupidly thought to ask ‘ _how do I look’_ but thankfully stopped herself before her lips even formed the words. She figured if she looked like she had been balled up in a chair drinking for the last few hours, then that was too bad because there was nothing to do about it now. She checked her wand, which was still concealed in the bodice of her dress, pressed tightly along the side of her ribcage. And then walked promptly from the room, leaving the Professor behind.

She took the stairs two at a time, feeling a little like an unconventional, unromantic, not entirely sober but completely ridiculous Cinderella, descending the main staircase to leave the party in time. Trying to get away before anyone ( _Ginny, mostly_ ) accosted her. There were some guests still enjoying the holiday cheer, but most of them were crowding the apparition foyer as they bid goodnights and happy Christmases in the midst of departing. The snow-conjuring spell had worn off, as she had planned, so that now the space was no longer scattered with flurries. Instead, the small area was swarming with witches and wizards. Hermione searched for Harry, stepping up to her tiptoes to scan tops of heads for that infamous scar. He would not come with her to church, but she wanted to let him know she was leaving nonetheless. There was sight of neither scar nor glasses (or even incessantly skewed dark hair). But she did see Kreacher, handing off coats and purses that were piled high atop his head as he plucked the appropriate garb and handed it off to its owner. 

“Kreacher!” she called and went over to the little elf.

“Yes, Missus Hermione?”

“Would you—“ she started, and then she was bumped into by a very large woman who must have been from the Ministry.

“Excuse me, m’dear,” the woman said with a slur, “Happy Christmas!” She then totted off on her way.

“Kreacher,” Hermione turned back, “Would you please tell Harry that I’ve gone to services and that I’ll be home later?”

“Of course, Missus.”

“Do you know where he is?” she asked suddenly, looking around again to see if he was there.

Kreacher hesitated. “Kreacher is not seeing Master Harry all night, Missus.”

She didn’t think that likely. Kreacher always knew Harry’s whereabouts in the house. Whether Harry was practicing spells in the library, flying in the garden, or snacking in the kitchen, Kreacher knew. Kreacher always knew so he could ensure Harry was always taken care of.

“All right,” she settled on. She didn’t have time to question Kreacher further. “Would you also please make sure all the guests leave safely?” She thought of Hagrid and his large flask.

“Yes, Missus.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” she said. She put her palms to her cheeks. They felt a little warm. She figured she had a full flush on her face from the spirits consumed. “Don’t worry about my cape. I’ll get it.” She stood from her crouched position.

“Kreacher was not worried, Missus,” he said with a croak and bowed as he backed away.

The little _bugger_.

She righted herself to her full height saw Luna Lovegood buttoning her coat in front of her.

“There you are, Hermione,” she said in her dreamy voice.

“Oh!” Hermione breathed. Someone had just pushed past her to get to Kreacher’s mountain of clothes. “Luna. I’m on my way out as well. I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to catch up.” 

Luna fastened her trapper hat under her chin. “That’s all right. I was having a very interesting conversation with that portrait of the centaur. Did you know the stars have aligned in the same pattern every Christmas for centuries?”

“No. I didn’t. But it sounds like you are referring to the Christmas star.”

“Oh, yes,” Luna nodded, “Although the portrait called it the star of Nazthai. Isn’t that fascinating? Neville thought so.”

“I did,” Neville said, walking up and adjusting his scarf, “Are you ready to go, Luna?” he asked, turning his face to hers.

“Leaving together?” Hermione asked, eyebrows rising in spite of herself. 

Neville’s cheeks reddened, but Luna answered for him. “Dad’s helping Mrs. Tonks take Teddy home,” she motioned over to where, in fact, Mr. Lovegood was easing a blanket onto a sleeping Teddy’s back as Andromeda held him in her arms. “So Neville volunteered to see that I got home all right.” Luna smiled sleepily.

Hermione smiled up at Neville, but he was too busy grinning back at Luna to notice.

“Oh, there’s Hagrid,” Luna said, “I’ll say goodbye to him.”

She walked away and Neville watched after her for a moment before facing Hermione once more.

“Everything all right? You stormed out before and Ginny ran after you. I looked for you afterwards but didn’t see you around. Harry either, actually,” he mused, “Did the two of you skive off your own party?” he chuckled.

Hermione shook her head. “No,” she said, evading the question, “But I’m off myself, Neville.” Her eyes flicked to the clock in the foyer. It was just at eleven now. She was missing the start of mass. “Take care and happy Christmas.” She leaned forward, putting her hand to his forearm and gave a squeeze with as much of a smile as she could muster.

“Happy returns,” Neville beamed, “And same to Harry when you see him.”

_Yes_ , thought Hermione, _whenever that is._

There were soft _pops!_ happening all around them as people apparated from the foyer and she knew the Floo in the sitting room must haven been flaring bright green in regular intervals as people left for home.

Hermione waved Neville goodbye and then turned on her heel to get her own cape when she saw Ginny and Hannah gearing up to exit as well. Hermione slinked deeper into the crowd, thinking she could do without her travel cape for the walk to the church. A warming charm could be just as effective, after all. And if she got through the door now, she might be able to avoid another run in. 

“Hermione,” her named was called from across the crowd. Hannah walked up, coat half on, one arm sleeved and the other attempting the same. Ginny was by her side, looking apologetic. It was clear by Hannah’s cheerfulness that Ginny had not enlightened her to their shared past.

“Thank you for inviting us. It would have just been the two of us at the Burrow if it wasn’t for you,” Hannah giggled, looking over to Ginny with affection. Ginny smiled painfully. “Goodnight. Happy Christmas!” She pulled Ginny by one gloved hand and Hermione attempted to not make eye contact with those startlingly green eyes, but she did. They were heavy with pity, or something of the sort, which made Hermione even angrier.

“’Mione,” Ginny said, coming to a stop in front of her. Her one arm was outstretched to the side, holding Hannah’s hand as Hannah gave a one-armed hug goodbye to Dean Thomas on the other end of the foyer. 

“It’s fine. Just go. We’re fine,” Hermione dismissed.

“I can still come with you,” Ginny said in a softer tone, “Hannah’s a bit sloshed. I’ll apparate her home and be back in three minutes.”

“I’m already late, actually,” said Hermione, smoothing her dress, “If you don’t mind—“

“Please,” Ginny said and stepped closer. Her hand was now stretched to the fingertips with Hannah.

Hermione stepped back. “Please, what?”

“I don’t want to leave like this.”

Hermione shut her eyes, took a breath and opened them. “I really want you to.”

Ginny looked at her, her mouth opening to say something as she reached forward, as though to touch Hermione, when a deep voice spoke from behind them.

“If you will excuse us, Miss Weasley, we are late.”

Hermione whirled. Behind her was Snape. He held is own traveling cloak in his hands and a dark look on his face.

Ginny stood in shocked silence, mouth agape. She then must have realized it, because she shut it with an audible click of her teeth.

Hermione must not have appeared any better, because she was just as surprised as Ginny and stood standing there staring up at Professor Snape as he shook out his cloak and placed it on her shoulders. It was cool to the touch as it draped along the length of her arms.

“You may go,” Snape ordered Ginny before turning his back on her to face Hermione directly. “Apparition or muggle transport? I beseech the former.” 

“Er,” Hermione started, and saw his expression darken, “Neither. The church is five blocks from here. We can walk.”

He tightened his hold on his cane and nodded. “Then there is no reason to tarry.” 

“What about Draco?” she asked. 

“He has…” Snape paused, “retired for the evening.” 

“Um.” Hermione heard Ginny say from behind Snape, but she did not wait to hear more, she made to turn and lead Snape out of the mob of guests but was stopped when her name was once more bellowed from the crowd.

“’’Ermione!” Hagrid’s gruff voice boomed, “Yer got the mistletoe over you!” With that, the entire room turned to her and she cringed, for they were all looking over her head, where she knew that blasted mistletoe must have bloomed, before their collective eyes settled back down to her. The shouts and cheers began in a deafening sound and Hermione wanted nothing more than to jinx that mistletoe right from the ceiling. Would it not rest until she was thoroughly mortified?

She saw amongst the crowd Neville’s laughing face, Luna’s glazed grin, Hannah’s delighted claps… and Ginny watching her soundlessly with cautious eyes.

“It’s between yer an’ Snape!” Hagrid pointed, eyes gleaming from whatever he had been nipping from his flask.

Snape glowered next to her, his eyes trailing upward as he saw what horror they were put upon.

“Oh, come on, Snape. Kiss ‘er. It’s tradition,” Hagrid cried.

Snape scowled, but that was expected. What she didn’t expect was for him to lower his face to hers and, with neither pomp nor circumstance, press a tight and quick kiss to her left cheek. He then righted himself stiffly and avoided all eye contact. 

“That’s the way ter do it!” Hagrid hooted and the rest of the crowd joined in with applause.

Hermione, still wondering just _what_ in Merlin’s name had happened, felt a firm hand on the small of her back and allowed it to guide her through the crowd and out the front door.

 


	4. Chapter 4

They walked quietly together down the streets of Islington, London as Hermione led them to the nearby church. She had not wanted to mention the kiss from the foyer, and _knew_ he would never entertain the subject, so the only words she spoke were a faint “ _It’s just ahead_ ” when they were roughly a block away.

It was now half past eleven. She would have just enough time to get to a pew and perhaps hear a few hymns before the rendition of _Silent Night_ began so that she may light her prayer candle.

The church came into view and she felt herself ease. Churches always marveled her. They were warm and calming regardless of their towering, stony exteriors. And churches were always welcoming, even if she had never step foot in a particular one before. She felt their draw even though her own beliefs teetered between muggle science, faith and wizard magic. But religion, and thusly, church, was something she shared with her parents. It linked them despite their condition. Although they were far inside their own minds, she felt closer to them once inside the doors of a chapel. In a way, coming to church felt like coming home.

And now she was sharing it with Snape.

They entered the church. The entryway was empty, no greeters or altar boys would be standing sentry now. It was too late into the service. But the sanctuary was full of patrons and the sounds, and smells, of Christmas mass beckoned her to come inside and sit.

There was an empty pew in the back, fortunately enough, despite the popularity of mass on Christmas Eve and the amount of patrons who had come to attend. The priest was in mid-chant as he swayed the globe of burning frankincense like a pendulum above the altar. Hermione slid silently to the center of the bench and sat, Snape following suit behind her and drawing his cane between his knees as he settled in. 

“It is performed in Latin?” he asked in surprise. 

“I thought you were proficient in muggle Christian rituals?” she returned.

“ _Protestant_ rituals,” he said haughtily and adjusted the grip on his cane.

The priest continued on, and when the congregation rose at the appropriate intervals, Snape would stand. When they sang, or recited a psalm, Snape would remain silent beside her. But he was there. And although her interest was on the service itself, she did note the lack of arched eyebrows and under-the-breath commentary from his side of the bench.

Then, the lights in the cathedral began to dim as altar servers descended each row: one delivering personal tapered candles for each parishioner to hold and the other lighting them from the wick of the Christmas advent candle. Snape declined his own taper but Hermione accepted hers, allowing the boy to light it, then cupped her hand alongside the flame so that it would not flicker out.

“Now the lights will go out. And we sing,” Hermione whispered. Just like that, the lights faded to black and the entire chapel became illuminated by the hundred tapered candles, held fervently in the hands of the faithful.

Music from the organ began and the congregation rose in unison.

_Silent night, holy night_

One by one, scatterings of men and women made their way to the center aisle, each holding their tapered candle.

_All is calm, all is bright_

They ascended to the front of the sanctuary in soft, choral footsteps to the display of unlit prayer candles before the altar. Slowly, each selected a prayer candle and lit it from their own.

_Round yon virgin, Mother and Child_

Hermione took a breath and looked up to Snape. Wordlessly, he exited the pew, allowing her to pass. She still held one hand protectively around the dancing flame of her candle, singing the words with the rest of the congregation as she walked dutifully forward to ignite her prayer.

_Holy infant so tender and mild_

Snape watched her. She came upon altar and took to one knee in front of the crucifix that hung morbidly from the ceiling. Then, she stood, found a candle without flame, and married it her own. She was too far to see clearly in these dim surroundings, but he thought he could make out the movement of her lips in prayer. He thought of the words she might be saying. Her plea for a miracle.

She came back down the aisle and stepped next to him in the pew. He did not _want_ to look at her, to allow her some discretion at such an intimate moment, but he could not keep his eyes from her. Her face was wet yet, still, her voice did not waver. She sung out strongly.

_Sleep in heavenly peace_

_Sleep in heavenly peace_

The room went quiet as he watched her lean in, her lips pursed as though for a kiss, and blow out her candle. Instantly, they were enveloped in darkness. He could feel her presence beside him. And felt his heart pounding in his chest.

Then the lights returned overhead, drenching them in their harsh fluorescents. He blinked, adjusting to it, and when he looked back down to her face, she had wiped the tears from her cheeks and now looked up to him with a satisfied smile on her lips.

“Happy Christmas, Professor,” she breathed. 

* * *

 

 

The walk back to Grimmauld Place was quicker than it had been on their way to service. There were no goodbyes or chitchat amongst the churchgoers once the ceremony was over. They all were tired and eager to get to bed for the proper Christmas morning in a few short hours. But Hermione had nodded and wished ‘Happy Christmases’ to several of the muggles anyway as they made a swift exit from the building.

Now, she and Snape had come back upon the row of townhouses number 12 was settled amongst. She slowed, not quite sure how to bring the evening to a close. It had been pleasant enough, although the entire walk back she had felt subject to Snape’s glares whenever she turned in his direction until she gave up trying to look at him entirely.

Finally, they were at the place between numbers eleven and thirteen and Snape’s feet came to a stop. She decided not to look at him now, either, and instead gazed wistfully back at the church.

“Thank you for coming with me,” she spoke softly, “It was unexpected. But,” she thought of his word from earlier, “Adequate.” Then she did turn to him, a grin playing on her mouth to see if he caught her joke. He was not grinning, however. He was brooding with eyebrows heavily knitted together.

“Well, goodnight, Professor. Or, good morning, as it were,” she said and pulled her wand from her dress to summon the door to number 12.

“Why do you call me that?”

She lowered her wand, looking to him. “What?”

“Why do you call me ‘ _Professor_ ’? You haven’t been my pupil in half a decade, Miss Granger.”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know. It seems odd to just call you Snape. Even odder to call you by your first name.” She shook her head, trying to imagine the word _Severus_ coming from her lips. “So I defaulted to Professor. Does it bother you?”

He looked as though he were considering it. “It is not…ineffective.”

He was acting strange… or stranger than his usual self at least. Cold wind gusted past them and her hair went wild about her face. Somehow, his own stayed firmly in place, with only the hem of his robes billowing at his ankles.

“My apology on the kiss earlier,” he said, straightening so that his body was almost rigid in appearance.

_Oh?_

“Oh, yes, that,” she said, feeling instantaneously embarrassed all over again that he even mentioned it. “Well, it’s all right. Everyone was goading you to do it. I didn’t mind.”

She tucked a mass of hair behind one ear, wishing this night or morning or whatever it was would just end. And that she could crawl into her bed and swear to never step into a room with mistletoe in it for the rest of her life.

Snape groaned. “Once again your insufferable mind has projected an opinion on me that it believes to be right, when it is, in fact, wrong. My apology was not in regret that I had kissed you. But the substance of that kiss.”

She looked up to him, eyes wide in question. He answered it by leaning to her. And kissed her. This time on her mouth. And this time with such fury that it lifted her off her heels and onto her toes. His tongue slipped into her mouth and tasted her. She felt the coolness of his skin and the heat of his mouth all at once. And she found herself kissing him back, so that her lips moved over his, her breath becoming captured by him and her tongue caressed by his own. His hands were on her shoulders, holding her, and when they broke apart, he kept them there.

“I will come to call tomorrow,” he said, his fingers gliding over the fabric of his own cloak.

“You mean today,” she corrected, her mind whirling.

He let out a breath and dropped his hands. “Insufferable,” he repeated, “Today, then.”

“For me?” She couldn’t think of a time a man had ever come to call on her. Which made her think: _do men even come to call anymore?_

“For my cloak. I would like to have it back.” He stepped back, his cane now setting back to the ground. He pulled his wand from his sleeve and wordlessly released the spell on the house. Number 12 began to unfold, its front door sliding into place for entrance. “Happy Christmas, Miss Granger,” he said and backed away into the dark of just-morning.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say thanks for reading!! I know this was a short chapter but the next one takes place on Christmas Day so it made sense to end here.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Hermione roused several hours later to noises coming from the hall. Still sleeping, she deepened her face into her pillow, not wanting to wake just yet. But the sounds were persistent and pulled her to consciousness. Hermione sat up in bed, hair all askew, and turned a scornful eye to her closed bedroom door and whatever Harry was doing beyond it to make such

_(insufferable)_

irritating noises to wake her.

_Insufferable_. Something about that word…

Oh, Merlin. The memories from last night rushed in: Ginny and Hannah kissing, herself running for refuge in the bathroom, Ginny so close— _too close_ —in that tiny space, then drinking in the library, Snape’s face cast with shadows, a mistletoe high above her and a twisting feeling in her stomach, stiff lips to her cheek, him beside her in church, her prayer and then… then the kiss that lifted her feet from the ground.

She flopped back to the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her head buzzed. _Snape. Snape kissing her. Kissing Snape back!_ And….oh Godric…he was coming to call on her _today._

She gulped, ready to process this in her mind when a loud crash came from the hallway and jerked her to her feet. Just what was Harry doing?

She crossed the room quickly yet soundlessly. Opening the door, she hurried her way towards Harry’s bedroom—the source of the commotion—when Harry suddenly ducked from the room, nearly colliding with her.

“Harry!” she gasped and skidded on her heels as not to crash into him.

“’Mione!” he startled, his shoulders cringing upwards in surprise. He gave a short glance to his bedroom door, which he had shut behind him, “Uh...” he said, scratching at his messy hair, then looked back to her, “Happy Christmas,” he finished as though just remembering.

_(_ “ _I will come to call tomorrow.”)_

“Oh, right. Yes, happy Christmas,” she said in a rush, “Harry, what in Godric’s name were those noises?”

He squinted a little at her through his glasses. He was dressed in only pajama bottoms, his chest bare; his scars prominently visible along his pale skin.

“Noises?”

There was a smash and clatter of several somethings from behind his bedroom door, and Hermione twitched in the direction of it. Harry stared determinedly forward, angling his body in front of the doorframe between them and the source of noise.

“Yes, _those_ noises,” she gestured toward the door. “Is…” Hermione started, taking her attention from the sound and bringing it to Harry, “Is someone here?”

“ _No_ ,” Harry said a little too quickly, “Who would be here?”

She tilted her head at him. “Harry, honestly…you’re an awful liar.”

“I am not. That’s just Kreacher”

“In your room?”

He looked as though he hadn’t thought of that. “Sort of.”

She gave him a shrewd look and he sighed. “Look, I’ll meet you downstairs, eh? I’ll ask Kreacher to make us some eggs and we’ll open presents.”

Just then, the elf, upon hearing his own name no doubt, came bobbing down the hallway from his own quarters. “Is Master hungry?” he croaked happily enough, scurrying down to meet them when he took one look at Harry and gasped. “Master is not fully clothed!” He then shot Hermione a reproachful look for looking upon Harry in such a state of undress. “Kreacher will fetch Master his shirt.”

“Kreacher, no-!” Harry tried but it was too late. With a snap of Kreacher’s fingers, Harry’s bedroom door swung open.

The room was a mess. Clothes and books and Quidditch equipment were scattered everywhere. And standing smack in the thick of it was an even further undressed figure, caught in the act of bending to pull on a pair of trousers.

“ _Malfoy?_ ” Hermione gaped in shock.

Draco looked up, blonde hair falling in front of his good eye, and when it met Hermione’s, he straightened at once. His trousers fell in a heap at his ankles, exposing his lean, muscular body in nothing but a pair of red pants.

“Salzaar’s grave Granger,” he snapped, “Are you going to stand there staring at me or are you going to shut the bloody door so I can get my bits back in place?”

“Misser Malfoy!” Kreacher sobbed, clearly heartbroken that he had unveiled such a scene. He began pushing Hermione away from the door as he snapped his fingers again, slamming it shut. “Oh, Kreacher did not mean it. Kreacher did not mean to show the muggle-born!” He shook his head, wailing. He gave Hermione a final shove and proceeded to thrash his own fist upon his skull. 

“Kreacher! Kreacher!” Harry said, rushing forward and seizing the elf, “Stop it! It’s all right. I said stop!” The elf went limp in his arms, covering his eyes with one boney forearm. Harry set him back on his feet and Kreacher gave Hermione a loathsome look as though the entire ordeal was her fault.

“Look, just go…back to your room and calm down,” Harry told him, “We’ll open presents later.”

Kreacher limped away without another look to either of them. When he was gone, Harry finally turned back to Hermione. 

“So… I’m starving. Breakfast? Just need to,” he was backing towards his room, “pop in here.” He opened the door and stuck half his body into his bedroom.

Hermione heard hushed whispers and then Harry emerged, a shirt in his hand. “He’ll be down in a mo’,” he said and then started the walk to the kitchen.

She followed behind him, watching him slip into his shirt blithely and descend the first staircase.

“Harry Potter—“ she said, queuing next to him.

“Shhh,” he hushed, “He’ll hear you.”

He motioned to the second staircase and they approached it with the sound of their footsteps echoing behind them. The portrait of Sirius’s mother stirred behind her curtains (Harry never could find a way to remove it from the wall), but neither noticed.

“Malfoy!” Hermione burst once they were at the second set of risers.

Harry gave her a sidelong glance and then began stepping down the staircase to the first floor.

“It happened,” he said with a casual shrug of his shoulder.

“But---how? Everything you were saying yesterday about him---”

“Right,” he nodded, “Still applies. He’s still a swotty arse. It just… makes sense now.”

They were coming upon the foyer now and, try as she might, she couldn’t get him to look at her. He walked diligently down the stairs beside her, evading her gaze. 

“What do you mean by that?” she asked.

Their feet touched down to the first floor and Harry seamlessly steered them toward the kitchen.

“The reason why he’s always been a git to me. Why he’s always around. Why he even showed up last night,” he continued and pushed the door to the kitchen open, letting them both inside.

She watched him, waiting for further confirmation, although she did not need it.

“He _liked_ you? All this time?”

Harry finally turned to her. He put a hand to his hair and ruffled it awkwardly. “Guess I found out why he never has a date.”

“Harry!”

“Look,” he said, cutting her off from questioning him further, “it just happened. Last night you had called me out on hiding in the kitchen--though you probably didn’t realize at the time that I was in there just being peeved by him. Then I felt like an arse so I went out there and talked to him. And….”

_(“My apology was not in regret that I had kissed you. But the substance of that kiss.”)_

“It just happened,” she finished for him. She swallowed. Yes, she understood how things just happened. Quickly. Before you even realized someone was kissing you, and that it felt surprisingly… _good_.

Warmth rose into her cheeks and she slid herself into a chair at the table. _Merlin_ what was happening to her?

Harry nodded, looking relived the conversation appeared to be over, and then waved his wand, summoning eggs from the ice box. They cracked themselves into a pan and he set to scrambling them.

“I hope Kreacher hasn’t impaled himself with something,” Harry lamented, “I had instructed him to alert us at dawn so Malfoy could slip out. That’s what all the noise was about. Things flying and crashing around the room left and right,” he shook his head, “Kreacher’s version of an alarm clock.”

“He covered for you, last night,” she said, thinking back to the elf’s evasion of her questions about Harry, “When I asked where you were.”

“He’s a little too excited to have a Malfoy in the house,” Harry snorted.

“A typical reaction,” a voice came from behind her. Malfoy was stepping into the room, wearing his black suit from last night and hair slicked back. He leaned himself against the wall, crossing his arms and smirking.

“Morning, Granger,” he said with absolutely no hint of shame or embarrassment that she had just seen him in the buff.

Harry, back still to them, asked to seemingly no one in particular, “Er, breakfast?”

Hermione was watching Malfoy, who at Harry’s voice, uncrossed his arms and pushed off the wall, attention to the back of Harry’s morning-hair.

“I have to make a visit at the foundation,” he said, “Then at St. Mungo’s.” He stood in place, tucking his hands into his pockets, and watched Harry dutifully poke at his skillet. “Later, though?”

Harry turned to him, face brightened, spatula in hand, and nodded. “Right. Later.”

Draco smiled then and, without word or gesture to Hermione, left.

 

* * *

 

When Kreacher could be coaxed to come downstairs and join them for presents, they retreated to the sitting room and gathered around the Christmas tree, scoping out which of the small assortment of gifts were theirs and dispersing them. Hermione had received knitting yarn along with potions texts and a new cauldron ladle from Harry, which was a little too fitting for the previous night’s events that she merely smiled politely and pushed them to the side, socks from Ron, a spell journal from Neville and teacakes from Hagrid. She held her bounty in her lap as Harry flipped through the morning’s _Daily Prophet,_ which had come while they had been eating breakfast. Kreacher was doting on his silver spoons from Harry, but did not care much for the bed linens Hermione had presented him with.

“Hermione?” Harry asked, lifting his eyes from his spot in the paper, “How did last night go? I mean, the party? How did it turn out for you?”

Her eyes flashed to him. She had been able to get thus far in the day without having to explain the bedlam of her evening, but it seemed the moment was upon her. She wasn’t sure where to start. Or if she even _wanted_ to start this conversation. But since Professor Snape would be at their doorstep some time in the next few hours, she figured she had better explain as to why.

“I thought you might have forgotten,” she mused. She was hoping he would have. “Well, thanks to that bloody mistletoe of yours---“

His face perked at the mention of the mistletoe. Hermione squashed it at once, “… I had a dodgier night than that party of Slughorn’s.”

“Oh. That bad, eh?”

She explained to him about Ginny and Hannah. And then the subsequent encounter with Ginny in the bathroom. Harry’s expression went from confused to appropriately sympathetic to discreetly delighted about the bit with the Father Christmas beard, until the end, when he was quietly appraising her.

“So it’s still over?” he asked when she was finished. “Or should we all prepare ourselves for Hermione and Ginny, Round Two?”

“Oh, no. It’s over,” Hermione said definitively. “She and I… we were just too tumultuous together. Seeing her these last two days was like sparking all that chaos again. And I _don’t_ want that.” She groaned at herself. “I’m being dramatic.”

“ _Ginny_ is dramatic,” Harry corrected her. “That’s how she is: spark and chaos. It sucks you in.”

“Not anymore,” Hermione shook her head.

Being around Ginny again was too familiar in the wrong way. Hermione had been someone else when they had been abroad. Someone impulsive and reckless. Someone out of control. When they returned to Britain, Ginny had still expected _that_ Hermione. It had been a crashing realization to both of them when they learned that Hermione was gone.

Harry nodded. Then he looked up to the ceiling, searching it. “Speaking of the mistletoe…whatever happened to it?”

She looked up, too. The ceiling was bare save for a few lasting faerie lights that had yet to burn out. “What do you mean?”

He frowned, craning his neck to see out into the foyer. “The box said it wouldn’t self-terminate until New Year’s Day, but I haven’t seen it around. Unless Kreacher nicked it and is hoarding it in his room,” he pondered with a shrug at this all-too-likely possibility. “When was the last time you saw it?”

_(“Yer got the mistletoe over you!”)_

She willed her voice to stillness. “Last night.”

“Hmm,” he said, tilting his head side to side as though considering this, “When, though? After the whole Ginny and Hannah thing?”

_(“Come, on! It’s tradition.”)_

“Um, yes.”

“So someone else kissed under it, than?” Harry said, voice unusually steady for such a question about his precious mistletoe.

_Oh no._

“What are you playing at, Harry?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said as he fiddled with the paper in his lap. “Just that a certain old potions professor might have snogged you under it. 

“How—” she started but he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He lifted the paper up to a section he had folded to front and brandished it at her with the merriest grin on his face.

He recited the article’s headline to her. “Holiday Romance Bounds at Christmas Eve Party for H.O.G.S.”

“Oh, Godric, no,” Hermione gasped. She summoned the paper to her, grabbed it and read the byline: _A special Christmas edition of Skeeter’s Sleaze for the Daily Prophet by gossip correspondent Rita Skeeter._

If Skeeter had written about the mistletoe…what else could be in the article? Could anyone possibly have been lurking outside at that hour when Snape had reached for her and kissed her? Who would go running to Rita bloody Skeeter in time to make this morning’s printing?

Her eyes lowered, scanning the paper; stomach flipping. She barely heard Harry ask, “Why didn’t you lead off that Snape kissed you?” before she became lost in the article.

_The holiday spirit worked its magic for local celebrity friends of Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived held an exclusive, Ministry V.I.P. and H.O.G.S. elite only, Eve of Christmas party at his Grimmauld Place brownstone last night. An insider confirms budding romances were plentiful as guests, donned in their Christmas finest, celebrated the Yuletide. Bachelor heartthrob Draco Malfoy was in attendance, wearing his signature black suit and complimenting crowd of witches. Readers can be assured that at least one lucky partygoer had stolen the Malfoy heir away for the evening! Luna Lovegood, daughter of_ Quibbler _Editor-in-Chief Xenophilius Lovegood, was witnessed gazing dreamily at Hogwarts’ new Herbology Apprentice, Neville Longbottom. After drinking and dancing, Mr. Longbottom then escorted his new love interest home._

_Meandering Mistletoe sent sparks flying between Holyhead Harpies’ Seeker Ginevra Weasley and her girlfriend and fellow Hogwarts Alum, Hannah Abbott, who shared an amorous snog beneath the Christmas flora. The two have been dating exclusively for the last eight months. It appears there’s only one other team Miss Weasley plays for-- and it is_ not _that of her ex-boyfriend turned close friend, Harry Potter. While the notorious Chosen One attended his own party solo, he spent the evening as a portrait-perfect host: attending to his guests, chatting with the Minister of Magic and reuniting with friends._

_The most talked about event of the night was the very last. Hermione Granger, sole female of what others have dubbed ‘The Golden Trio’, received the unexpected gift of romance in the form of her ex-Potions Professor, Severus Snape. The complex war hero was first to step up when young Miss Granger was caught beneath the mistletoe at the party’s end. “It was a sight ter see,” one witness, Rubeus Hagrid recounted, dapping at his eyes. And we’re sure it was! After snogging his former student amongst cheers and applause from other guests, the now-retired Professor Snape convinced Miss Granger to abandon the party with him for what we can only assume was a much more intimate setting. Surprising as it is to us, readers, it seems the excitement of Christmas can ignite even the most unimaginable flame._

_As always, Skeeter’s Sleaze will be sure to keep an eye out for more from these two, plus all of last night’s freshly hatched love birds._

Hermione scanned the print again. She felt the relief that the article had no mention whatsoever of the _real_ kiss that had occurred between her and the Professor, which meant, _blissfully_ , that neither witch nor wizard had witnessed it. But she also felt the disgust and rage that this article existed in the first place.

“This is rubbish!” Hermione exclaimed and flicked her wand. The _Prophet_ went straight into the roaring fire in the hearth next to them, where it was subjected to death by flame.

“All that really happened?” Harry asked earnestly, “Snape actually kissed you? Blimey. Sorry about that, Hermione.” He made a repulsed face.

“ _Yes_ , it happened. But not like she said it did!”

“Well, of course not. That’s the work of that bloody quill of hers. Ugh. How was it having that nose against your face?”

“Oh, stop. He kissed me on the cheek,” she said dismissively, still fuming over the article.

Harry looked relieved.

She went on, quoting it. “ _‘Luna Lovegood witnessed gazing dreamily at Neville’_. That’s how Luna looks at everyone!”

“That is true,” Harry sniggered. “But it also says Ginny and I are ‘close friends’. I didn’t even see her last night.” He rolled his eyes.

Hermione watched the ashes in the fire. “I wish I could send a Howler to the _insider_ who gossiped on all of us.”

“Aw,” Harry sighed, “Don’t be mad at Hagrid. You know how he gets when he’s put on the spot.”

“Hagrid? It wasn’t Hagrid! The ‘insider’ relayed to Skeeter what, I’m sure, was no more than a passing comment from him after the fact. And he was probably only dabbing at his eyes because of the stench of his tie,” she added, muttering under her breath. “The article stated that Ginny and Hannah have been dating for eight months. Hagrid wouldn’t know that. But you know who would? And who is an avid _Sleaze_ reader and Skeeter fan? Hannah bloody Abbott.”

She frowned. “And the way it described me. Like I’m the lowly spinster of the group. Suggesting that I went home with Professor Snape and playing up the fact that I was once his student. That article is beneath even Rita Skeeter.”

“Er,” Harry started, “ _Did_ you go home with Snape?”

“Harry Potter! Are you so quick to forget I walked in on you and Draco Malfoy this very morning!? Professor Snape accompanied me to mass.”

“He… _what?”_ Harry gaped. “You’re joking. He went to muggle services with you?” 

She nodded once, vindicated. 

Harry opened his mouth to speak, to prod and mock perhaps as well. But just then a silver shape soared into the room, materializing into a misty patronus. It had no discernable shape, but still spoke in the clear, ominous and very distinctive voice of Severus Snape.

“Three o’clock.”

Then it vanished.

“And how the bloody hell would you like to explain that?” Harry asked, turning to her, eyes as wide as soup bowls behind his glasses.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

After explaining to Harry all about Snape, Hermione was left to endure his teasing (for even though Harry held the utmost regard and respect for the man who had loved his mother and saved his life time and again, Harry was still mindful of the fact that Snape loathed him. And that was just fine with Harry. The two were not thrown together often, but were civil when those opportunities presented themselves). Although when he jokingly asked if snogging Snape had made her feel at all like she had been kissing Kreacher, Hermione cut him off with a look. He had nodded, no doubt expecting her inevitable limit, and went back to his presents, although a slight knowing grin could be spotted on his face.

Hermione then found that three o’clock on Christmas day came quite quickly. The great clock in the foyer was sounding its third and final chime when a soft _pop!_ came from the apparition foyer.

Kreacher called, “Misser Severus Snape is calling on Missus Hermione.”

Robes billowing behind him and cane at his side, Snape strode into the sitting room where Hermione was knitting in her chair with Crookshanks in her lap and Harry was pruning the tail of his Firebolt. The piano was playing soft Christmas tunes and the fire was flaming in its hearth. Upon the Professor’s entrance, the two of them looked up, eyeing Snape, and it was impossible not to believe that he was looking down his nose at the pair of them, although Hermione assumed at least he wasn’t at _her._

“Hello,” she croaked, then cleared her throat and tried again, “Happy Christmas.”

“You have already wished me the sentiment once today, Miss Granger. You need not repeat yourself.”

Harry sent her a knowing look, which she knew immediately translated as: “ _This is what you get when Snape comes to call_ ”. He was absolutely right. She supposed it was.

“I’m almost finished with this line,” she said, looping the yarn around her finger and feeding the needle through, “You’re welcome to sit.”

He looked totally uncomfortable with that invitation, but sit he did. There was a stiff, high-backed leather armchair a meter away from where she was seated, and if there was any chair in the room that looked as though it would befit Professor Snape, that was the one.

As soon as he sat, Crookshanks took it upon himself to give the Professor a more fitting welcome than the two humans, who had not even bothered to move from their seats. He leapt to the floor, gave a half-hearted paw at the dangling yarn from Hermione’s lap, and proceeded to curl and wind himself between Snape’s legs.

Snape looked down at the half-cat at his feet with nothing less than disdain.

Hermione dropped her stitching and scooped Crooks up at once. She noticed he had left some ginger cat hairs on Snape’s trouser legs, though she pretended not to see them.

“He normally doesn’t approach anyone but Harry and me.” She walked the cat a few steps toward the doorway to let him out into the foyer, “He must remember you from the Shrieking Shack,” she said, thinking of their third year.

“You mean the night I was hexed unconscious?” Snape said with no amusement in his voice.

_This was not going well at all._

“Um, yes,” she answered and bent down to let Crooks bound from her arms and out the room.

“Fantastic catching up on old times,” said Harry dryly. 

Snape rose from the chair, smoothing the front of his robes with one hand. The other gripped his cane. “I believe we were under the agreement that I would be collecting my cloak today.”

“Oh,” she said, stepping forward, “Are you leaving already?” Even though the entire ordeal thus far had been miserably awkward, she wanted him to stay.

“Not unless you are expelling me from your company. I thought we might,” he paused, his eyes cutting to Harry for one moment before resuming back to her, “take another walk. And I would like to wear my own cloak this time.”

“Kreacher’ll get it,” Harry said, snipping a particularly gnarly branch from his broom, “He’s probably been listening in this entire time anyway. Ah, there he is.”

And so was the elf. He came lurching into the room with Snape’s traveling cloak tucked under his thin arm.

Hermione motioned to Snape and together they walked from the room, leaving Harry smirking after them.

 

* * *

 

She wore her own cape now, with the beret in her hair, the same as she had done two days ago in Diagon Alley when she had run into Ginny. Only now, it was twice as cold, with briskness in the air that suggested an eventual snowfall.

Her hands were covered with mittens and she held them in front of her, rubbing them together for warmth. Snape wore only his cloak, and, noticing her chill, tapped her shoulder with his wand wordlessly. She felt warmth spread through her.

“It will not block the wind,” he explained, “But it will help.”

She nodded in gratitude and the two of them walked slowly down Grimmauld Place.

“Sorry about that, in there,” she said, letting out a breath.

“Are you apologizing for the cat or your housemate?”

She laughed at that. “Crookshanks. I just think Harry doesn’t know what to make of you yet.”

“The feeling is mutual,” said Snape.

He turned left off of Grimmauld and Hermione wondered why. She wasn't sure what made her think so, but she assumed they would walk back to the church. Morning service would be long over by now, not that she thought Snape would want to endure another, but nevertheless, where else would he want to go in London on Christmas Day?  

She let him lead, though. If he had somewhere in mind, that was fine with her. She had no idea what to do with him otherwise. She had put no thought into his visit. Because each time she tried to think of doing something with Snape, there was a void in her mind of anything but brewing potions. It was all she had ever seen him do, besides the drinking and the church service from last night.

And the kiss. She shouldn't forget about that. 

“You two have more in common than you think,” she said, picking up the conversation again.

“Something I hope to keep as minimal as possible.” Snape shook his hair from his face. “However, it appears inevitable now. You're presence encourages foolish behavior, Miss Granger.”

She frowned. “That's not a compliment.”

“No, it's not.”

The frown deepened. Just what the hell was he talking about?

He sighed and clarified. “My point is that I never had it in my mind to sit across from the boy I had risked my life to save after it was all said and done-- certainly not on a social call-- and yet I did so today. With you.”

“And it was terribly awkward,” she giggled, thinking of Snape’s face when Crooks had rubbed against his shins.

“Indeed.”

“Hence my apology.” She raised her eyebrow at him and, miraculously, the corners of his lips lifted, just the tiniest bit. She felt a strange vindication that she was able to get him to smile. She smiled back; then looked away from him and down the street they were walking. “Harry’s a good one, though. My best friend. After my parents and everything fell apart with Ginny, he was there for me. He didn’t… judge me or shut me out. Unlike Ron.”

“What became of,” Snape paused as though this next bit tasted particularly sour on his tongue, “the Weasley boy, then?”

“He wasn’t very keen with me for taking it up with his sister. He was cruel about it. But, then, I suppose I had been cruel, too. Things with him are…testy. But we’re getting there. To friends again, I mean.” She eyed the Professor. “How is it we’re always on the subject of my love life?”

“It is never my intention, rest assured. However, you seem devoted to exude information on your affairs daily.”

She rolled her eyes. “One day I’m going to prod you on personal bits of _your_ life and you will have no choice but to indulge me.”

“Unless you have Veritaserum in your stores, that day, blessedly, is not today.”

“Perhaps not,” she conceded, “But…” she trailed, pulling her lip into her mouth and wondering if she should broach the subject on her tongue. 

“Do you plan on finishing your thought? Or should I continue to wait in suspense?”

Well, she might as well go ahead now. 

“Your patronus changed.”

Snape looked away from her at once, his attention on the busying path ahead of them. “I am aware.”

“Only,” Hermione mused, “I couldn’t make out its form. It was still, mostly, incorporeal.”

They crossed a street; muggles brushed past them as they came upon the other side.

“Indeed,” he said, remaining at pace beside her as they walked on, “Yet, not ineffective in delivering my message. I was surprised to find it was more than a momentary wisp.” 

She looked up to him with raised eyebrows and although he did not meet her gaze, he seemed to have guessed her query. “What you witnessed this morning was the first attempt at that spell since my recovery.”

She knitted her brow to him incredulously. “You haven’t cast a patronus in over four years?”

“Miss Granger, despite what you may have believed, I did not emerge from war with an abundance of suitable memories necessary to cast a patronus, corporal or otherwise.”

Oh.

He went on. “The one I drew upon had only been acquired this very morning. As it turned out, it was… sufficient for the spell.”

He remained looking straight on ahead, stoic as he walked. The sound of his cane clicked on the sidewalk. Motorcars droned by. Hermione continued to stare at him, wondering if she had understood him correctly and, if so, that it meant their kiss from the early hours of morning had been the only memory Snape possessed to even attempt _expecto patronum_.

“ _That_ was a compliment,” she said, testing her theory.

“Are you not sure?” he asked.

Hermione set her jaw. “No. I am,” she said, nodding decisively, “It was.”

He said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. She found herself doing the same.

She let Snape continue to pilot her further through main streets of London. After a while, her body gave another shiver. The warming charm was wearing off now. She wondered if they could apparate back to the house rather than endure the full strength of the wind against their faces on the walk back home. Just when she thought to ask him this, he spoke again.

“We have arrived,” he said and she looked up wondering, firstly, why he had brought her somewhere specific and, secondly, just where that specific location would be.  

Both those questions were answered in one glance towards the shop window to her right. The sign read: Purge and Dowse, Ltd.

Her heart began to pound in her chest as she looked at the all-too-familiar farce of a storefront. It felt jittery and wild in her chest as she looked back at him.

“You brought me here?” she asked, breathless. He had known. Somehow he had just known to bring her here.

He must have misunderstood her surprise for he asked, “Do you not wish to see your parents?”

“Of course,” she rushed, “But, how did you know?”

She watched him as passersby surrounded them, not one giving thought to the condemned shop or the two people who stood in front of it, staring at the other.

“Miss Granger, you light a candle every December 24th for your parents. What sort of idiot would believe you would not visit them on Christmas Day? It was only the matter of confirming their residence.”

She was too stunned to reply. Of course she came to see her parents on Christmas. She came to see them once a week, but additionally on holidays. Christmas was special, though. Her Christmas visit was always filled with the added hope of her prayer from the night before. That somehow, her God had listened to a small witch in a church in London. And for some reason, He might have decided to grant her miracle. 

“I usually come at night,” was all she said, “I was planning it after you would have left.”

He looked away then. “If you do not wish for me to escort you inside, I can wait here.”

“In the cold?” she laughed, “Don’t be thick. Follow me.”

She turned to the window to where the seemingly inanimate mannequin stood.

“Hermione Granger and guest, visiting Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” she announced.

The dummy nodded and Hermione and the Professor stepped forward through the glass and entered St. Mungo’s Hospital.

  

* * *

  

They went through reception and entered the lift to the Fourth Floor: Spell Damage. It took only a few minutes before the doors opened and Hermione led them down the corridor and to a section marked: ‘Permanent Damage’. Snape watched her as they walked. Her expression was calm yet determined and so full of hope that he wanted to turn back with her and make her go, so that she would not have to see her parents’ inevitable state of catatonia. And so he would not have to see that hope fall from her face.

They entered the room (Number 394) and she shed her outerwear as she walked briskly to the two single beds that were lined side by side. 

He stayed back, giving her space to be with them. When she walked between their beds and put one hand into each of theirs and knelt between them, he closed his eyes.

He heard her. She was talking to them, softly. Her voice steady in the rise and fall of a one-sided conversation. It sounded almost like she was praying. He kept his eyes shut and listened to her. When her words turned to song, he was not in the least surprised. Of course she would sing to her parents. Of course she would try to trigger the section of their brains that responded to music. She was that ingenious.

She was that tender.

He listened to her sing, the sound awakening a part of him he had long thought buried.

 

* * *

  

She closed the door to her parents’ room behind them when they left. There was no change in their condition, but Hermione had checked with the Healers in charge of their case nevertheless. She had spoken to her parents, kissed them, and sang them a rendition of _Silent Night_ in a hushed whisper, for she was embarrassed for Professor Snape to hear. Somewhere in there, she hoped, they had heard her. She wanted them to know it was Christmas and that she had been there.

“Thank you,” she said when the door clicked closed. She tried to wipe at her eyes before he looked at her. “Normally I come alone. It was different having the company.” She let out a breath. “It wasn’t so… _lonely_ ,” she said, blinking in realization, “I didn’t even realize that it _was_ lonely before.” A shaky laugh came from her throat.

She hadn’t known, that was true. It was sad, of course. And it was difficult, _of course_ , to see her mother and father like this. But she had come dutifully by herself because trips like this were never something you _wanted_ to bring others along to (or subject them to, really). But when the Professor had simply brought her here and followed her into the room without hesitation, she felt something unexpected lift inside her: the loneliness in the act of sitting in a room with your dying parents by yourself.

“Well, no longer. It shouldn’t be lonely again, ever, as I will be with you.”

It made her stop in her tracks. It was Professor Snape, after all, with his greasy hair and large nose and threatening glare. And yet, _blimey_ , there was a softness to him that she had not anticipated. That she never knew could be there. And the strength he showed, that she had, as of yet, taken as malice, was in fact _strength_. It radiated from him in a way that did not just make her feel comforted, but reminded her of how it had felt when he had kissed her that morning. And the way his hands at been at her shoulders, his thumbs ghosting across them.

It made her want to do it again.

They were interrupted, then, by an incredulous shout of her name.

“ _Granger?_ ”

She whirled round, feeling like she had been caught in the act of something provocative. But she had only been _thinking_ of something provocative. About Professor Snape.

She shook her head, attempting to quiet these thoughts, when she saw the person to match the voice that had called out to her: Draco Malfoy.

He must have changed his clothing from when she had seen him last this morning, but one would never be able to tell since he was walking toward them in yet another black suit. She saw his good eye move upwards from her and, no doubt, observe Snape standing next to her. Surprise played on his face, but he quelled it with a crooked smile as he came up next to them.

“Godfather,” he greeted. He eyed them both. “What’s going on here?”

“Use the process of deduction, Draco, and I’m sure you will be able to come to a reasonable conclusion.”

She sniggered at that. So Snape did not even treat Draco, known-Godchild, any differently, either. That was something to be said for her own confusing situation with the Professor.

Draco snorted. “I don’t think you want to know what my conclusion is.” 

“Easy,” Snape warned, but Malfoy went on.

“I guess you can believe whatever _Sleaze_ you hear.”

“That is enough,” Snape said, punctuating it with a crack of his cane on the floor.

Draco stopped immediately and, out of character, apologized. “Sorry, Godfather.” He looked to Hermione, “Honestly, this makes much more sense than you and the Weasel. A Slytherin suits you, Granger. In fact,” he tapped a dramatic fingertip to his chin while smirking, “The only other wizard I could imagine would be…me. And we both know that’s not happening.” He cracked a laugh and then ducked, anticipating Snape’s tongue-tie hex. It hit a nearby plant and shattered its pot.

“What is going on out here?” A Healer came running down the hall.

Draco stiffened his stance and held up his hand to the approaching wizard. “My apologies, Gertfruit. That was me.” 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Gertfruit said, panting from the sudden cardio, “I didn’t realize you were on this floor.” He bowed his head and then left the three of them. 

“He lets you go about hexing hospital wings?” Hermione blanched.

Draco put his hands in his pockets, proud of himself. “Looks like it. I’m something of a big deal, remember?”

“There are patients here!” Hermione hissed.

“I don’t actually throw hexes, Granger. That was the bloke at your elbow,” Draco reminded her. Then he turned to Snape. “Happy Christmas, Godfather.” He looked back to Hermione. “Granger.” 

With that, he turned and walked away. She watched him open a patient door and enter, closing it behind him.

“What is he doing?” Hermione asked, watching the hall Draco had just been down.

“There are other families still suffering the aftershocks of the war, some from the hands of Draco’s own father and aunt. He visits those patients here.”

The Professor’s words struck her in surprise. She had told Harry the other day she believed Draco was trying to turn his life around, but she hadn’t realize the depth of that act. 

Swotty arse? Yes, Draco was undoubtedly one, still. Death Eater? No. Not anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> Process of deduction: a nod to Sherlock
> 
> Malfoy saying that he would be the only other wizard he could imagine fit for Hermione - a small honoring for the Dramione ship, one I've sailed before.
> 
> “something of a big deal” – a play on Anchorman’s “I’m kind of a big deal”


	7. Chapter 7

They decided to Floo back to Grimmauld Place. Hermione had simply shouted _“Harry’s!”_ as she had thrown the powder into the hearth and it had brought her there.

Professor Snape followed shortly after. He stepped out of the fireplace in the sitting room, dusting ash from robes.

She took his cloak and suggested he go back up to the library on the second floor. She wanted to make tea, the muggle way, and she would come up when it was ready. In the meanwhile, Kreacher would come up with biscuits. Not that in her wildest imagination could she picture Professor Snape eating them.

Harry was nowhere to be found. Either he was avoiding Snape, or Draco had made it back before them. Either way, she levitated the tray of teapot and cups alongside her as she made her way to the library.

Snape was there, standing with his back to her and hands clasped behind him as he surveyed the contents of a tall bookcase across the room.

“You have a great deal of muggle novels,” he said in a way that she could not discern whether it was an insult or not.

She let the tray sit on the small, round table they had used last night for their drinkware and walked over to where he stood.

“I have a great deal of novels, period,” she corrected him, “But, yes, that bookcase is solely muggle authors.”

“Shakespeare I recognize,” he said, “Dickens and Austen as well. Some, however…” He plucked a book spine and held it out in front of her. “King?” he asked and she laughed, taking it from him.

“American horror fiction,” she said, running her hand over the spine, “Popular with muggles. The genre is not for me but,” she looked down to the book, “the writing is.” She placed it back on the shelf.

“Horror? I would have placed you strictly on classics,” he said, looking over her collection once more.

“Why, is that snobbery against an American muggle author I detect? I would never have expected that from you,” she teased and was met with the predictable sneer.

“The classics _are_ my preferred reading,” she admitted, selecting one of her own novels. Its cover and page edges were completely worn from use. “With this as my utmost favorite.” She held the cover up to him.

He read the title. “ _Jane Eyre?_ ”

“Yes,” she nodded, and couldn’t help her smile as she flipped the book back to her and pressed it against her chest, hugging it to her.

“A gothic romance novel?” he raised an eyebrow to her. 

“What? No! Why would you say that?” she almost yelled at him, offended.

“It says it on the back cover,” he drawled. 

“Oh, they don’t know anything,” she dismissed, “They’re just trying to sell it to silly women who want to skip to the romantic parts. No, this book is more than that. _Jane_ is more than just one-half of a relationship. She’s smart and independent and a feminist far before her time, all the while being dowdy and plain. It’s nice to read a heroine with a brain and a kind heart and clearly not the most attractive but never off put by it. Someone, well, like me,” she finished with a shrug.

She could feel his dark eyes on her as she returned the book to its place on her shelf. 

“You believe yourself to be dowdy and plain?” he asked from behind her.

“Funny how that is what you focus on. I would have bet a Galleon that you would have corrected the smart bit to _know-it-all_. To answer your question, yes. I know myself to be plain. Though I at least try not to be dowdy.” She looked down to her black trousers, maroon jumper and saddle shoes. Well, maybe she hadn’t tried _today_.

She turned to face him and noticed at once that he had moved closer to her. The black-buttoned neck of his robes was almost eye level to her and he was looking down at her with an inscrutable gaze.

“You’re joking,” he said simply.

“I am not,” she blanched, “There’s nothing wrong with being plain. I’m just saying I’m aware of my teeth, which never shrank properly, and my hair, which never does _anything_ properly. I know exactly what I see when I look in the mirror. I have no illusions or insecurities about it. Not everyone can be a Ginny Weasley, or Parvati Patil or,” she crinkled her nose and said with a begrudging groan, “Hannah Abbott.”

Snape grumbled and pushed away from her. “I beg you to stop ticking off names of former students of mine in suggestion that I find their appearances... desirable.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Am I not a former student of yours? And yet, you have no issue with…” _kissing me_ , she wanted to say but decided instead on “discussing my appearance.” 

His nostrils flared, so that he looked irritated and even offended. “It is different with you. Did I not make that clear this morning?”

“Why? Why is it different with me?” she prodded him, “Why now?”

“Insufferable,” he grounded out and stepped to her in three quick strides. He towered over her: his face low to hers and hair hanging forward, brushing against her own. “You are not a girl anymore, Miss Granger. As you pointed out in so many ways to me last evening. Not a virgin-drinker, or _virgin-anything_ , as you put it; your ability to withstand drink; your ever-cunning and bravery in your battles; your devotion to your parents’ recovery, and your willful loyalty to your God. You are no longer the child flitting about the fringes of my life, and I could not return to regarding you in that way even if it meant another fucking snakebite. You are a _woman_ ,” he said, his voice thick. He bent himself at his knees, leaning more onto his cane, but now she could feel his face in her hair. “You have the sensuality of a woman… and you don’t _have_ to try at it like those insipid girls.” His hand went to her shoulder again. It felt chilled and solid and she gasped. “Never would I think you dowdy or plain. You are vibrant and strong and I have been ensnared by you since the moment I sat down in this very library last night.”

With that, she could wait no longer. She reached up to that gangly hang of hair and brought him to her. Their lips met for the second time and there was a flicker of flame that ignited in her chest, branching out and engulfing her so that her arms and belly and thighs tickled with it. The hand at her shoulder glided to her neck, touching his flesh to hers. She kissed him harder. Her mind churned the thought over and over again: Severus Snape. You are kissing _Severus Snape!_ And instead of confusion or fear or intimidation…it filled her with craving. That this man she had known her entire life as a witch could make her feel like this. She took his hand in her own and pushed it downward, pressing her lips harder to his. He took the hint. He was older and wiser, after all. His hand skated down the front of her jumper to the top of her trousers and thumbed the button there. It opened, joyously, and _Godric_ that strong hand was under her knickers, finding her. Touching her. Torturing her. He pushed her up against the bookcase. There was a thud as it refused to give in to their weight. His lips moved in rhythm with his fingers as he found her spot. And it was like his mouth and hand were one. Where she felt the pad of his thumb, she imagined his tongue. Wetted and firm and _oh!_

She pulled her mouth away, shutting her eyes as her nerves thrummed at his touch. Her hand flew down, covering his, holding it there. He needed no guidance, _by Merlin he did not_. But she gripped his hand and gasped and swallowed until, _yes_. Oh Godric, yes. The release. The pleasant and wonderful relief.

She leaned her head against the bookcase, calming her breath, and opened her eyes.

“How do you do that?”

He lifted a dubious eyebrow at her. “Miss Granger. Surely I do not have to explain how your own anatomy works.”

She blushed at once. “Not that,” she said and bit her lip, gazing to the ceiling above them, “How do you make me feel like this?” She lifted her head from the bookcase to see him clearly. “I never gave you a second thought in my life. You were a teacher, an Order member. A cruel one at that,” she panted with a smile, “Then you came into my home and made me feel---“ she licked her lips, “alive.”

He scoffed instantly. “You’re drunk on pleasure,” he dismissed.

“I am not,” she said, leveling herself and buttoning her trousers. “I _have_ been. I know what that feels like.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It should,” she said, not without irritation, “I’m telling you that I’ve mistaken lust for something else before. And that is not the case with you.”

“And I am telling you, Miss Granger, that there is nothing more to my hands that can make you feel any differently than another lover.”

“Oh!” she huffed, “ _You_ are insufferable.”

“I am myself. Do not fantasize me into someone else. I am still an old, cruel man.”

“You are _not_ old.”

“Declares the twenty-one year old,” he rolled his eyes.

She let out a breath. Well, this had gotten out of hand.

“I am myself,” she repeated his words back to him, “I am not a girl, but a _woman_ , remember. You have thus far treated me as one. Don’t now begin to belittle my thoughts as some girlish fascination.”

He groaned, but when she looked up to his face, it was benevolent.

“Insufferable know-it-all,” he muttered and she met his mouth in a kiss.

 

* * *

  

Much after they had returned to the leather chairs and the last of their tea had been drunk, Kreacher had come in to inform them that Master Harry insisted Missus Hermione and Misser Snape enjoy a private Christmas dinner in the dining room, and that Harry would take his own meal later. 

“That’s sweet of him,” Hermione said, “But silly. I’m not going to make him eat Christmas dinner alone. Would you please tell him to join us?”

Kreacher looked annoyed at this. “Master Harry _insists_ ,” the elf stressed.

“I believe,” Snape sighed, “that my godson is here. And this is a polite attempt to excuse them both from dinner.”

“ _You know?_ ” Hermione gasped, turning to Snape at once, “About Harry and Malfoy?”

He gave her a disparaging look. “You assumed I didn’t?”

She thought back to the night before and how she had asked Professor Snape about Malfoy before they had departed for the church. _“He has… retired… for the evening”_ was his response. He had known. Certainly, he had bloody known.

“If Missus and Misser would like to eat,” Kreacher said, clearing his throat, “Dinner is ready downstairs—“

“That won’t be necessary,” Hermione said, “We’ll eat in here, if it’s suitable to Professor Snape.” When he nodded, she continued. “Right. Kreacher, would you please send up a plate each? I’m sure we won’t need more than that.”

“ _Yes_ , Missus Hermione,” the elf croaked and left with a _crack._  

When the elf had gone, Hermione rounded back to Snape.

“What do you think of it? Harry and Malfoy?” she asked.

“I think it is none of our business.”

“And you don’t think they’re up there having a laugh about us?” she joked. “I’m sure they think you’ve gone insane and I—“ she stopped, blinking in thought, “Merlin, who even _knows_ what they’re thinking about me.”

“If they have any sort of self-preservation, they will not be thinking, let alone speaking, _anything_ about either of us. Or I will go up there and permanently shut their mouths.”

She watched him and the expression on his face was so serious that she burst into laughter. She was still laughing when two plates of food, followed by two goblets of wine, floated into the room and landed in front of them.

 

* * *

 

It was late when dinner was over. They had been pleased to discover that Kreacher had spelled their wine goblets to refill once emptied. And so, even after they had finished dinner, they enjoyed several more glassfuls of wine and conversation until Hermione was curled in on her chair, arms resting on the table and head nestled upon them. 

She yawned. “It is late,” she observed.

“Yes,” Professor Snape said from his chair, “It is late. Christmas will soon be over. Before that occurs,” she heard him shift in his chair, “I have a gift for you.”

She popped her head up.

_He did? Oh no._

“There’s one way to rouse a tired woman. Mention the prospect of a gift.”

“Stop. I’m only surprised… and embarrassed. I don’t have a gift for you.”

He waved this off. “Don’t overexcite yourself. Your gift is not ready as of yet. I only wanted to tell you, while it is still Christmas, that you have a present coming to you. From me.”

She smiled sleepily at him. “When will it be ready?”

“This gift can not be rushed.”

This only peaked her interest. What on earth sort of present could he have set in motion with less than twenty-four hours between their last encounter? And… why hadn’t she thought to do the same?

Because he’s Professor Snape, that’s why.

He stood from his chair. “Would you release the wards? I would like to apparate from here.”

“All right,” she said, standing up. She pulled her wand from the table and flicked it. “You have three minutes.”

“More than sufficient.”

He stepped forward and she was too tired to do more than stand there and wait for him to meet her. When he did, she felt a kiss to the top of her head. Then he pulled away and apparated on the spot.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione slept in on Boxing Day. When she woke, there was a breakfast tray and two notes that must have come with the morning post on her bed table. She sat up and began to nibble at the toast. She heard voices from the hall. Two male voices. She discerned at once they belonged to Harry and Draco. So, he had spent another night at the house? She would have to rag Harry on that later.

The first note’s handwriting was familiar enough as the sprawl that had graded and edited her potions essays all those years back. She opened it with her wand, took a swallow of orange juice, and read it.

_Miss Granger-_

_I have dedicated this day to staying within the limits of my home at Spinner’s End. If you would like to join me, I have enclosed a Portkey that will activate at 1 in the afternoon._

_S.S._

She peered into the envelope, unsure what sort of object Snape would bewitch as a Portkey. It was a bookmark. She held it in her fingertips and smiled.

The handwriting on the second envelope she recognized at once. It was Ginny’s.

_I was a git._

_I’m leaving for Ireland after New Year’s. Please come have a pint with me and talk this over._

_Ginevra_

Hermione crumpled it and set it back on the tray. _That_ was not happening. She finished her breakfast and stepped off the bed. Then she summoned her beaded bag and set to packing it. Just in case.

 

* * *

 

The bookmark glowed at precisely one and Hermione, with her bag in tow, was transported to the living room in the small cabin at Spinner’s End. Professor Snape was sitting in a corner of the room, reading, when she appeared.

The first thing she noticed was just how bright it was in the small space. That’s when she noticed the lamp Snape was reading under. The _electric_ lamp.

She let out a squeal that was perhaps too telling of her age and dropped her beaded bag to the ground, where it landed with a thud.

“You have _electricity!_ ” she gasped, looking around. There were several lamps and electrical outlets and light switches lining the walls.

“Try to contain yourself, Miss Granger. This _is_ a muggle house.”

She let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a shriek and rushed to one of the switches. She flicked it to the off position and the lamp above Snape’s head clicked off.

He leered at her from his now dimmed corner.

“Sorry,” she said hastily and switched the light back on. “It’s just… I haven’t been in a muggle home in…ages. Not since my parents’ house.” She let her fingertips brush the switch a final time and then stepped away. “Why haven’t you converted it to magical home standards?”

Snape sighed, marked his place in his book and shut it. “Unfortunately, this area has been renovated and repopulated. If you refuse connection to their electric system, it raises some concern for your…sanity.” 

She twirled slowly in place, taking in the rest of the room. The furnishing was scant at best but it suited Professor Snape. Small windows, bare of drapery (she had no doubt he spelled them with a cloaking charm for privacy), an even smaller fireplace, the upholstered chair in which he currently resided, a rocking chair in his opposite corner, a large bookcase, writing desk and then a small hallway that led to the kitchen, loo and, she was sure, at least one bedroom.

“Is there a telly? Or a phone?” she asked, not really expecting to see either in the home of Severus Snape, but _oh_ , what a delight they would be to behold. 

“Absolutely not,” he recoiled, “Don’t be ludicrous.” After a long pause he added, “There is, however, a muggle radio.”

Hermione could not contain herself and, at the moment, she didn’t very much care if she was acting like a giddy schoolgirl. “Really?! Where?”

She followed the trail of his eyes to a small, antique radio box sitting on a side table close to wear Snape was seated. She walked straight to it and, without asking, turned the dial to ON.

Classical music filled the room. Apparently the Professor _also_ had a penchant for muggle classics. She had to conceal her grin at the thought. Then she recognized the holiday melody.

“Oh, I love Tchaikovsky.”

“You would,” Snape’s voice cut through the music, “ _The Nutcracker_? _Swan Lake_ and _The Sleeping Beauty_? Miss Granger, you are an unequivocal romantic.” 

“That’s not a bad thing,” she murmured, but quickly changed the dial to a channel she remembered from her childhood.

Gritty guitar chords blasted from the tiny speaker.

“ _What in Salzaar’s name?_ Turn off that caterwauling at once!” Snape called.

She cringed and silenced it. _Whoops._

“That is the music preferred by your generation of muggles? Nonsensical wailings of a grown man asking to be entertained? He has missed the bloody point of music altogether.”

She had to contain her laugh. “It’s grunge,” she defined with a shrug and Snape looked to her as though she had just labeled a freshly discovered disease. She walked over to where her purse lay on the floor and bent to pick it up.

“The difference in our ages may never cease to amaze me,” he gave a long sigh.

She lifted her purse and brought it over to the rocking chair, resting it on her lap as she sat. “Does it bother you?” she asked, “The gap in our ages?”

“I find it in my best interest to _not_ dwell on the fact that I have lived a full a lifetime in the years it took for you to come of age.”

Godric. He wasn’t _that_ old. It wasn’t like she was attempting to date Dumbledore. She shuddered at that.

“You make it sound like you are robbing the cradle,” she winced.

“That is _not_ what I meant,” he said sternly. “Only that life now feels very long, and you are just beginning it. While I….”

“Still have many, many years ahead of you,” she finished, knowing it was most likely _not_ the point he was trying to make.

“Indeed.”

“Well, it doesn’t bother _me_ at all,” she said, matter-of-factly. She looked down to her purse in her lap, selected a book from it and then set the bag down on the side table beside her, where it gave another loud _CLUNK!_

“What exactly did you bring in that bag?” he asked with a furl of his lip.

“Just some essentials. Books, my knitting, more books, a few parchments of spells I’ve been working on, quills and ink…”

_My toothbrush and some clothes…_

“Merlin. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t pack the cat.” 

Actually, now that he mentioned it, Crooks would have loved to have come and set about making himself the master of a new house.

There was a table lamp beside her. She gave a quick check to the Professor to make sure he wasn’t watching before turning it on with a satisfactory _click_.

“You enjoyed that far too much,” his voice called and she whipped to look at him. His nose was deep in his book, but she could spot one dark eye watching her from beneath his lanky, black fringe. 

“You enjoy watching me far too much. Get back to… whatever book you’re reading.” 

He lowered it at once. “I’m shocked you did not recognize it the moment you spun into the room.”

She narrowed her eyes at the cover. It looked like…

“ _My book!_ ” she exclaimed, jumping out of her seat, “You took it!”

“Well, you are certainly excitable this afternoon. First the electric and now this. Perhaps I should refrain from showing you any more of the house, lest you faint.”

“If you wanted to read _Jane Eyre_ , you simply could have asked. I would have given you my other copy.”  
  
“I see. Am I not worthy of this one?”

“It’s not that,” she said, “I have a new edition that is in much better shape. _That_ ,” she nodded to the copy in his lap, “is the one _I_ read. It’s tattered and falling apart. But it’s… special.”

“Your mother’s?” he said in a way that made it clear he already knew the answer.

She nodded. “She gave it to me when I left for Hogwarts my first year. 

He closed the book and offered it back to her. But, appraising him, she shook her head. “I have a better idea.” She took out her wand. “Do you mind?”

Hermione did not wait for him to reply, but flicked her wand at him and watched the chair on which he sat transfigure into a small loveseat, complete with soft throw pillows.

“Miss Granger,” he called, “You have been here no more than twenty minutes and already see fit to redecorate?!”

She walked over to the newly expanded seat and sat next to him. She did not brush up against him. She did not get close enough to touch. She merely sat down and leaned over the book.

“What page were you on?” she asked, nonchalantly.

Still staring at her, he flipped open the book once more to where he had left off.

“Oh, this is a good part,” she said, grinning at the page, “Much better than the potions text I was about to start,” thinking of the book Harry had given her for Christmas. She cleared her throat and began to read.

_“ ‘He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking the same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.’_

_‘You examine me, Miss Eyre,’ said he: ‘do you think me handsome?’_

_I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware: -- ‘No, sir.’”_

“Well, I see the resemblance to you already,” Snape quipped.

Hermione chuckled and went on reading.

 

* * *

 

Hermione continued to read to the Professor until her voice tired from it. After that, they simply read silently to themselves from the book, and he would turn the page whenever he was finished with it, as she always finished first. 

She had stretched out in the seat with her legs propped up on the opposite arm. She yawned, when movement from the window nearby caught her attention.

 _Snow._  

“Oh, Professor,” she said, rising herself onto her knees so that she could see better through the glass, “It’s snowing.”

“Indeed it is,” he said, without looking up.

“Are you so much of an old grouch that you needn’t even look up from your novel to see falling snow?” she asked.

He closed the book and eyed her ruthlessly. “I distinctly remember your insistence that I still have many years ahead of me. Now it seems I have not only aged but become a grouch as well?”

“You have always been a grouch,” she reminded him and looked back to the snow that had begun to collect outside, “Come.” She stood up. “Let’s go out.”

“Utter _romantic_ ,” he goaded, but gave her a half-grin regardless. Snape selected his wand from his sleeve and dotted it through the air. Numbers appeared above him and when he caught her studying them, he explained. “Weather prediction spell. Spinner’s End is expecting nearly 32 centimeters of accumulation,” he said, his brow furrowing.

“But,” she said, reading the stats now with ease, “not until after six. It’s only four now. We’ll be fine.”

There was nothing he could say to that except to summon his cloak, scarf and dragon-hide gloves. Snape put them on as Hermione dug deeper still through her beaded bag and emerged from it an oversized, marled knitted hat with matching scarf and mittens.

She knew what he must be thinking, so without prompt she stated, “I could make you a matching set, if you like,” as innocently as possible as she pulled the pom-pom’d hat on by its earflap tassels. Her back was to him, so she could not see the look of horror on his face as she walked to the front door, grinning wickedly.

 

* * *

  

The snow was light and airy as it fell from the sky above the street on which Snape grew up as a child. Scatterings of cars made their way down the road and several neighbors were outdoors, either supervising children playing in the snow, or already trying to rid their driveways of it. She saw that his property was well kept and it tickled her to imagine him sprucing up the yard and repairing his home the muggle way.

Snape cast warming spells on their feet as they set out. Rooftops and trees were sprinkled with snow and a few centimeters had already accumulated on the ground, but it was not too much that they could not walk through it, even with Snape’s cane. It was falling down in soft, blustery wisps and she noticed that several snowflakes were clinging to his hair. She reached up, her hand inside the oversized mitten, and brushed some of the specks from his head. He looked to her, so starkly dark against the white landscape, and she beamed at him.

Hermione wasn’t exactly sure of where they would go, but the wonderful thing about snow was that you did not need a destination. You were simply out to enjoy it for as long as you could brave the cold. Then, you nestled inside with a blanket and something hot to drink and watched the rest from indoors.

She wondered if the Professor even owned an extra blanket.

Hermione hooked her arm through his as they continued down the path. She supposed this is what typical couples did, but she had not much to go on with this hypothesis. She and Ron were not together long enough to take any strolls. And her cavort with Ginny was so wildly out there she had no idea if they had traveled with linked arms or by totally draping across the other. Professor Snape was stiff beside her, but seemed amiable enough to her arm through the crook of his and the side of her body against his own.

As they walked in near silence, she thought of what she had told him the previous night, pressed up against that bookcase, with his hands still on her hips: that he was making her feel alive.

She had meant it.

Just as she had not known her solitary visits to her parents had been lonely, she had not been aware of how…gray things had become in her life. There had been the aftershock of her relationship with Ginny, which had reverberated its way across oceans to nearly shatter their lives back home. Once that was all over, and Ginny had left for Quidditch and Hermione felt a little like she could breathe again, she supposed she still never felt quite right. She held no job, her mother and father were in a hospital, and she spent the bulk of her time researching possibilities that might restore them to life. She lived with Harry in his home, which was wonderful, but still never sought her own place. It was like she led a temporary existence. One put on hold.

_(“In the technical sense alive, but do not live.”)_

Then Professor Snape showed up to her Christmas party.

 _"Then you came into my home and made me feel alive,”_ she had told him. And he had.

 _Romantic_ , she heard him scold in her head. And he was right to do so. She was Hermione Granger. She certainly did not need a man to come and wake her from whatever gray state of affairs she found herself in. _She_ was always the solution. _She_ was always the means to the end. Not a man. Not _this_ man, she would have sworn to Salzaar’s grave and back.

And yet… she was falling for him. Silly, how that sounded inside her own head. It had been only three days, after all. She had spent far longer with Ron (although not truly _with_ him). Even longer than that with Ginny. But with Snape, she reacted in a way years with her exes had never touched. He wasn’t just making her feel alive. He was making her feel… _everything_. His touch on her skin, the banter and tease they shared, his resilient presence beside her with her parents. He shook and rattled every bit of her, rousing her. _Arousing_ her. Quaking her to the core. Snape had been a wizard on the outskirts of her ascent to womanhood, and she had come out on the other side of it completely and startlingly swept up by him. 

She looked up to the Professor, snowflakes falling on her cheeks and lashes as she did. He was not the most handsome man she had ever seen, nor the kindest. But none of that bothered her in the least. Here was the man who had walked back into her life at the most inopportune time and reminded her to live it.

She squeezed him tighter to her, suddenly all the more pleased she had packed enough for an overnight stay.

“Are you cold?” he asked and she shook her head.

“Not now,” she answered and they continued their walk.

 

* * *

 

They had wandered their way to town. By now, it was a quarter to five in the evening and twilight was upon them. Shops were turning their “Open” signs to “Closed” early for the impending storm. Hermione spotted a small bakery and insisted they go inside.

Shaking off the snow they had collected on their coats, Hermione and Snape entered the shop.

“We’ll be closing in a mo’, Ma’m,” the boy behind the counter said once they were inside.

“That’s all right,” said Hermione, “We’ll just take two hot chocolates and some biscuits to go.”

“Do you want the Boxing Day special?” he asked as he poured the drinks, “It’s hot chocolate with a splash of marshmallow vodka and peppermint schnapps.”

“That sounds horrid,” said Snape at the exact moment she gasped a “Yes!” at the boy. He looked to each of them, then back to Hermione and winked.

She paid with her own muggle money, which surprised the Professor as much as he tried not to show it, and then they were on their way back down the road, only now they sipped equally strong and delicious hot chocolates.

“How do you like it?” she asked him, once she had witnessed him take a nip from his paper mug.

“Surprisingly tolerable,” he said and took another sip, “But I prefer your tea.”

“Do you?” she asked, genuinely surprised, “I packed some of my PG-Tips, you know.”

“That does _not_ surprise me.”

She turned her face from him, watching the snow fall heavier around them. She swallowed and said “I’ll make some for us in the morning.”

She could feel her blush now and looked away. She had hoped that was subtle enough.

“The morning?”

Perhaps she had been a little _too_ subtle.

“There is going to be approximately 32 centimeters of snow traveling across the air and space I will attempt to apparate through in a few hours time. Would you not prefer me to spend the night instead?”

He blinked at her, and there was a pause of silence between them. Then he dipped low, pressing his lips to hers in one chaste kiss. She could taste the liquor on his breath, mixed with the velvet of chocolate.

He pulled away and hooked her arm round his own again.

“Obviously,” he said and walked her back towards his home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> “ ‘He had been looking two minutes at the fire…” - this excerpt shown in italics is an exact quote from Jane Eyre. Credit goes to Ms. Charlotte Bronte.


	9. Chapter 9

 

They had come back to his cabin and into the warmth. Their hot chocolates finished, their cheeks pink from cold and drink, and their bellies aching for supper. Snape flourished his wand to light the fireplace and heat a stew he had prepared earlier for her. They devoured it, cleaned up, and she found herself back to the transfigured chair. Snape had disappeared down the hallway, explaining that there was something that needed tending to and that he would be a little while and she should entertain herself in the living room.

Now she was back to her beaded bag, sorting things around in there. She had her pajamas, toothbrush, hairbrush and some things for washing. She found her hand was shaking a little and she brought it out, staring at it. Nerves. Could she be nervous? Her fingers quaked. Yes, she supposed, she could. _Merlin_ , she shouldn’t have just come right out and said she was spending the night. She should have let it happen naturally. Now he was back there doing…oh, she had no idea what men might do to their bedrooms before taking a woman to them…but she figured whatever it was, was new and foreign to her.

She took her wand out and cleared her throat. She tried to sound as calm and indifferent as possible, and then sent her patronus to inform Harry of her overnight stay.

She put her wand back in the bag and then picked up her potions text. It was so quiet, alone in the room, that she went back to the radio and turned it to his classical station. Keeping it at a low volume, she settled back to the expanded chair and began to read.

He came back a little while later and found her curled up on the loveseat, a potions textbook in her lap and a quill for marking notes in the margins in her loosely closed hand. She was asleep.

Snape looked at the clock on the side table. It was only nine thirty. He had been working in the storeroom for less than an hour. It must have been that blasted drink that knocked her out. He thought of levitating her to his bed, but dismissed it at once. He thought of bringing out a blanket to cover her and let her slumber here on the couch. That seemed cold and despondent. What else was there to do but to lift her up into his arms and carry her to bed?

Insufferable woman.

He leaned his cane against the wall and bent to lift her. She was not as light as he had anticipated, and a part of him felt she was doing that on purpose, but he managed to scoop her comfortably with one arm, and gripped his cane with the other as her legs rested on his forearm. It was wobbly and awkward, but he carried her sleeping form to his room and lay her down on his bed, which now seemed terribly small for two people.

She gave a small sigh and turned onto his pillow, burrowing into it as she slept. Snape slipped off her shoes and then his own and sat next to her on the bed.

Her brown mass of hair was tangled every which way. Once she had pulled off that horrid hat, her hair had celebrated its newfound freedom by expanding twice in size. Now it was everywhere, spread across his pillow and spilling onto his lap. Snape reached out his hand, tentatively, and put his fingers to it. It was soft to the touch. And he found himself stroking it as he summoned his

_(her)_

book and began to read to her:

_“ ‘As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is disposed to impart all that the brain conceives; though I dare say it would be silent on much the heart experiences. Mobile and flexible, it was never intended to be compressed in the eternal silence of solitude: it is a mouth which should speak much and smile often, and have human affection for its interlocutor. That feature too is propitious._

_I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow professes to say, -“I can live alone, if self-respect and circumstances require me to do so. I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure, born with me, which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld; or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.’”_

He stopped, looking back to Miss Granger. Her brown eyes were staring back at him.

“You examine me, Miss Granger,” he quoted, “Do you think me handsome?”

A small, sleeping smile played on her lips and he matched it.

“This is my favorite part,” she said in barely a whisper.

“Then I shall continue,” he said, turning back to the book. He looked down, scanning to find his place when her fingers sprawled across the page. His eyes flitted back to hers and she was looking to him with clear intent on her face. He shut the book and placed it to the floor.

“ _Nox_ ,” he breathed. The lights went out and he lowered himself down to her.

“Professor, I think I should tell you,” she said and he could feel her breath in his hair, “I’ve only…I’ve only been with Ginny.”

That wasn’t exactly the news he had expected to hear. Simply the name of her former lover while they both lay in his bed sent his brows into a tight knot on his forehead. Until he realized the meaning of her words.

_Merlin’s ghost!_ She had never been with a man.

“I thought you were not a ‘ _virgin-anything’_ , if my memory serves correct,” he ground out. His throat felt dry as sand.

“I’m _not_ a virgin. I’ve just never…not with someone of the opposite sex before.”

“Than you are a virgin to me,” he said in a low voice.

“I am not!”

He let out a breath. She was stubborn even in bed.

“Regardless,” he said, his voice gravelly as he resolved himself, “you will not be in the morning.”

He leaned in and tasted her. She was sweet and honeyed and he tried to rid his mind of the fact that she was a virgin— _a virgin, for Salzaar’s sake_. Did he even have the stamina or grace that a first time merited? It had been years-- a _decade,_ really _\--_ since he himself had bed a woman and now was expected to finesse a virgin? His body raged to have her. He only hoped that it had the patience to make her first male experience a _complete_ one.

Snape ducked his head, moving his lips along her neck and to her sternum. She gasped, her hands finding his hair and tangling themselves in it. He groaned at that. A woman’s hands had not been in his hair since he was a child. For no one wanted to touch hair that looked and felt as slick as oil. Miss Granger surprised him in ways he could not have imagined. She had transformed into a woman before his very eyes. Not just in age, but maturity and grace and independence. She had become not only desirable to him, but _delectable_ as well.

He put his own hands to her torso, gripping her at the ribcage. His thumbs glided the material of her shirt upwards until her delicious belly was exposed.

He intended to nibble as much of her skin as she would allow.

Snape moved down to the hollow of her stomach, just above the navel and put his tongue to it. He tasted her, suckling a little at the skin as she arched beneath him.

“This body,” he breathed, and stunned himself that he had spoken it aloud, “this supple, firm body you lay before me...” He allowed himself the tiniest nibble of flesh and she quivered. “Watching it prance through this house like a nymph …curling yourself beside me in that blasted chair you had seen fit to fix. Never touching, but close enough that I could smell you…could feel the heat of your body. Then, pressing it against me out in public, where I could do no more than watch you, wanting you.”

He laved her stomach, hands pushing her jumper up and over her breasts. Her hands met his, collecting her shirt where he had left it and yanking it away from them. He was stiff now against her. His cock aching as much as his tongue to claim her. To have all of Hermione Granger, the virgin--no, the _woman_ —in his bed.

She was bare from the waist up, and it seemed improper to let her be the only one so ill dressed. He shed his robes, the weight of him heavy on her thigh. Merlin, _her thigh_. He let out another groan. Would every part of her body tempt and torture him? He ran his palms against the twill of her trousers, down the thigh and under the knee, to the calf and feet. He took the socks off one by one, kneading the sole of each foot, and placed a toe in his mouth, feasting on it.

Even her toes were palatable.

How could he have ever survived one fucking second at that school knowing the unbearable girl in the maroon and golden robes had a body this delicious? How would he have resisted? He would have been driven mad.

“Professor,” she panted. And, _the little minx!_ , she had unbuttoned her bottoms and was sliding them off, knickers and all. He aided her with them, tossing them to the floor with the rest of their clothing.

Flesh to flesh he came down beside her, until he could stand it no more and put his head to her thighs and his hands to her arse, kneading it into his palms.

“Professor!” she gasped as his mouth found her sex. He laved her there: first slow, then quickly. His body begged for its own completion, but he found he was able to quell it with every moan and arch her body gave. She was enjoying him. _Him_.

He nibbled there, unable to resist, and she cried out in pleasure, her hands fisting into his hair. He did so again, with pressure, and she quaked around him. She was glorious… achingly glorious in her peak of climax.

By then he could not resist longer her if he were twenty years younger. He pushed up to his arms, aligning himself with her opening. He gave her a final pause in which to back out, to stop and come to her senses that it was Severus Snape she was about to bed. But she did not. She merely put a finger to his mouth, and he took it in. Her eyes rolled back as he tongued it and when he pushed inside of her, he saw only the slightest wince cross her face before she grinned back up at him, triumphant.

She moved so well in rhythm with him that it suggested this was not their first time together at all, but that they had been taking part in such activity for years. His thrusts were met by her hips in turn, and when he cupped her legs up around him, her head fell back in ecstasy.

_Merlin_ , the sensation of her. Suddenly, he was grateful for the wait. For the long years of celibacy that presented themselves amongst his forced solitude. He, in fact, had _not_ been suffering the absence of sex. It was that his body had been waiting for his Miss Granger.

The validity of that thought pulsed through him, making him fist his hands into the sheets of his bed. He plunged deeper and bit back a moan. _His_ Miss Granger. He thrust again. _All his. Meant for him. And he meant for_ her _._

She cried out, and the tightness he felt around him was her second completion. He was not far behind, one more movement within her, slow and exquisite…and he pulled himself from her body. His arms clinging tightly around her, he could feel her fingers stroking his face, and he came.

Afterward, when they lay side by side each other in the darkness, her voice came as a whisper.

“Was that my present?” she asked.

“Absolutely not,” he answered.

 

* * *

 

Hermione woke in the middle of the night to an empty bed. It was completely dark within the small bedroom at Professor Snape’s home, so she cast a _lumos_ to guide her through it, slipping on the first garment she could find… Snape’s black robes. They hung from her small frame. Without the shirt and trousers beneath them, they exposed much of her naked flesh out to the world through their part in the middle.

That was all right with her, however. She only planned on encountering one person in this cabin and he had already not only seen all of her body, but

_(devoured)_

tasted it as well.

She walked out to the living room where he was sitting in that expanded chair she had made. He had a glass, of what she assumed was liquor, in his hand and was staring at the loveseat in which he sat.

“Did you sleep at all?” Her hand pulled the robes together at her navel, which covered the lower half of her body, yet still exposed the slight swell of her chest.

He looked up, startled to see her there.

“A little,” he said, darkly, and took a long drag from his glass.

She wondered what could have him up, then, at this hour. And she assumed that maybe he had not been used to sharing his bed while he slept. It was only a single mattress, after all.

“If you like, I can go back to Grimmauld Place and sleep there. I’m sure the weather has cleared enough for apparition.”

He turned his head to her and gave her a look so aghast she wondered if she should just apparate right here from this spot, half naked in his robes.

“Go back?” he repeated, “You think I want you to go back to that house? To your own bed?” he sounded so incredulous that his tone bordered on hysterical. “I never want you to go back. _That_ is the problem.”

The window above him had become almost completely covered by snow. Hermione could see only white and darkness through it. It was early. So early in the morning and here he was drinking himself into a paroxysm of emotion. She looked back to him. “Well, good. Because it is too early for me to go home, just yet. And I am too knackered to travel,” she sighed, “If you come back to bed—“

“I am _not_ returning to that bed with you,” he scoffed and swung back the rest of his drink.

Oh, it was too early for his riddles. She padded over on her bare feet and sat herself on the floor in front of the loveseat. She had a feeling that he would not appreciate her sitting beside him at the moment. His robes pooled around her, and she brought them tighter still against her body, so that now no skin peeked through. It was cold and chilly out of the bed.

“Then we are at an impasse, Professor. Tell me what is bothering you.”

He stared forward for a long moment, then down to his glass, which he saw was still empty. He rested it in his lap, took a ragged breath and spoke.

“I had resigned myself to loving one woman my entire life, Miss Granger. _One_ woman, even though she did not return the sentiment and is now long buried.”

Hermione took a breath. So it was the memory of Harry’s mother that had him away from bed beside her and drinking. She had known what the Pensieve had revealed in memories the day of the battle. Who hadn’t, once Snape had submitted them during his trial? Professor Snape had loved Lily Potter, despite her clear refusal of him and despite that she had loved and married Harry’s father, James. Professor Snape had committed his life to loving her, even after her death. So now, was he still mourning the love of his life? Even with a post-coital Hermione Granger asleep in his home?

Hermione suddenly felt very foolish, sitting on his floor barely clothed as he sat above her, longing for his lost love.

Snape continued, avoiding her eyes. “The mere concept of love is so detestable to me that I never wished it upon myself for a second time. The emotion had brought me nothing but grief. Even from the beginning. Other children cherished affection and pride from their parents, while I sought distance.  I became a greedy teenager who repulsed the girl I cared for through prejudice and jealousy. As man, I pined for love unrequited and endeavored to use power to claim it back as my own,” he gritted his teeth bitterly, “Only to have it combust and peril everyone in its ashes.”

His tone hardened. “When I awoke in that hospital wing to discover that I had survived… the relief that washed over me was _not_ that I had lived. The relief that felt so blessed and complete was the final absence of love for Lily Evans. She had left me, finally. She had left my old, blackened heart and I could not be more grateful for that one and only gift she would ever give me: the release of loving her and never having to feel that wretched emotion again.” He swallowed, and that borderline hysteria crept back into his voice.

“But now, Miss Granger, I find myself trembling here in my own house! With you sleeping in my bed, that I cannot even lay in beside you, for I fear that what I feel for you is what I have dreaded.” 

She saw that his fingers twitched around his glass. He looked shaken. Terrified, even.

“Your love for your parents… your love for your friends… be sure to comprehend that I have not known these things. I have only known the pain of love. And I do not wish to feel that again. I deplore the very idea!”

“Professor,” she said, bringing herself unto her knees so that her eye was level with his, forcing him to look at her, “what are you trying to tell me?”

She thought she knew. But, _oh_ , how he was going about it!

“I'm trying to tell you, Miss Granger, that despite my best efforts, it appears I am no longer impervious to that one emotion I wish not to feel.”

She shook her head at him and he looked to her with conflicted eyes.

“You stupid man,” she said, “Are you trying to tell me that you love me?”

His eyes flared at hers. “You insult me when I am bearing my soul to you?” he hissed.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, standing now. The robes opened slightly, although she did not care. “Because that is how you are acting. Inside your own head, needlessly worrying and working yourself into a tither. When you could have simply just said…” She paused and saw the blazoned, panicked look in his eyes. “You could have just _told_ me. And I would have assured you that you are not alone. That this is just as unexpected to me as it is to you. The only difference is that I do not fear it or wish it away. I welcome it. So, if it is love you think you feel towards me, know that I feel it, too.”

Snape’s expression went from fire to cold shock, his eyes wide as he scoured her face for mock or scorn or sarcasm. “Miss Granger-“

“Don’t ‘ _Miss Granger’_ me!” she said and batted unruly curls from her face, “If you try to dismiss my feelings as some high from the orgasms you so expertly delivered… I will hex you into St. Mungo’s!"

There was a long pause in which she only breathed and waited while Snape surveyed her in the darkness. Until finally, he whispered, “Will you say it?”

She could hear the vulnerability in his voice and, eyes locked with his, she straightened her back and said clearly, “I’m falling in love with you, you idiot. You needn’t worry so much about it as I have no plans to leave you. Now,” she said, unfolding her hand for him to take, “Come back to bed with me and I’m sure I can find a way to prove it to you.”

He took her hand, blinking bewilderedly at her, and they stood together.

“Are those my robes?” he asked and she laughed: a tinkling, musical sound in the silence of the night. He returned a tentative chuckle. “You’ve improved them,” he said and kissed her. His hands tucked under the fabric of his clothes and brushed her skin.

Eventually, they found their way back to the bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> “ ‘As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter…” - exact quote from Jane Eyre, shown in italics as it is word for word. Credit to Charlotte Bronte.
> 
> “I’m falling in love with you, you idiot.” Meant to reference Gilmore Girls season 1 finale’s line: “I love you, you idiot.”


	10. Chapter 10

 

She did, in fact, have to leave Spinner’s End. But it wasn’t for another two days. In the mean time, she had Harry send her some things. And Snape had teased her on why Harry had not wrapped and parceled her cat to stay, to which she retorted that the next time she came she _would_ bring Crookshanks with her. To that, he seemed too stunned to conjure a reply.

On December 29th, Hermione packed up her bag and apparated back to Grimmauld Place. She was first welcomed by Crooks himself, who initially seemed very angry at her for leaving him for so long, but eventually gave up that charade and came to purr and paw at her until she picked him up and hugged him.

The second greeting came from a small house elf she did not recognize, who had come bobbing merrily into the foyer upon her arrival. He wore the usual tea towel, but also a pair of small spectacles, with a large curled pouf of hair on the top of his head.

“Aha!” he squeaked, smiling pleasantly at her, “Missus Hermione has returned to the house!”

She looked down at him, completely dumbfounded. Apparently he knew exactly who she was and yet she was totally unaware of his entire existence until now.

“Um, who are you?” she asked.

“I is Marty the elf!” he said proudly, sticking his chest out in front of him and smiling genially. “May I take your things?” He held out his small hands to her.

“I suppose,” she said, handing him her bag and cape.

“Misser Harry is in the kitchen,” he said, gesturing in its direction.

Huh. She had been gone for no more than three days. Had Harry really went and found himself a new house elf? Or, she worried, had something happened to the ancient Kreacher?

“Where is Kreacher?” she asked, looking round for the more disgruntled elf.

Marty winced at the mention of Kreacher’s name. His head tilted ominously upwards to the ceiling above them as he peered at it through his glasses. When he spoke, it was in a hushed tone and careful that the other elf would not hear. “Kreacher is in his room, Missus Hermione. Kreacher is not liking Marty here.”

“Right,” Hermione said as though this all made perfect sense. She had no idea what was happening in the house, but stood and watched Marty the new elf prance from the foyer with her things held high in his arms before she headed toward the kitchen to find Harry. And answers.

Just as Marty had said, Harry was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and reading a magazine.

He looked up when she walked in and when he saw it was her he brightened and stood from his chair.

“Hermione! Welcome back,” he said with a start.

“Harry,” she greeted, then gestured back towards the door she had just walked through, “Why is there a new elf in the house?”

“Oh, him,” Harry laughed nervously and scratched at the back of his head. “He’s from the Manor.”

“The Manor?”

“Uh, Malfoy Manor,” he clarified, “Draco’s been sending him over.”

“ _Really?_ ”

Harry nodded as if this wasn’t odd at all. And she wondered if the entire house had gone mad while she had been out. Although… she realized she wasn’t exactly well versed on wealthy wizarding romantic gestures. Was this, perhaps, what one well-to-do wizard would do for another? She had no idea.

“Kreacher doesn’t really like him very much. He’s been territorial of me. They bicker… a lot, actually.” Harry shook his head and started to laugh. “It’s been really strange around here.”

He shifted on his feet and Hermione had a clear view of the magazine that he had been reading on the table. She read the title on the cover and her brow creased. “I’ll say it has,” she muttered, looking back to him, “Since when did you start reading _Witch Weekly_?”

“Oh,” Harry said. Then, reluctantly, he added, “Draco sent that, too.”

“Malfoy sent you a witch magazine?” she repeated.

The house _had_ gone mad! Then, sudden and awful understanding came to her and she stared back at the magazine in horror.

_Oh no. Godric no._

“He sent you that magazine because it bears a fresh, new _Skeeter’s Sleaze_ , doesn’t it?” Hermione gasped. Then, thinking out loud, continued, “And he wouldn’t have sent it if it didn’t feature…” she trailed, striding over to the table and ceasing the magazine. She flipped through it and found the article easily enough, as it was full page and topped with the bold, glittering headline: “ _Snogging H.O.G.S.: Hermione Granger’s Winter Romance Continues_ ”

“Ugh!” Hermione gave a disgusted groan. “I really wish she would stop using ‘ _hogs_ ’.”

There it was in black and white: a full description of her outing with Professor Snape on Boxing Day, complete with their kiss “amongst fluttering snowflakes descending joyously around the couple, as though the spirit of Lily Potter was blessing her old friend’s new courtship”. She groaned again, this time in sympathy for Harry, who was staring benevolently at the article in her hand.

How had Skeeter known about her and Professor Snape? Surely Skeeter’s “insider” source, Hannah Abbott, could not have divulged information on something she had not witnessed.

“How did she know about this?” Hermione bristled.

“You know Skeeter. She’s got her stealthy ways. She was probably holed up as a beetle in one of the bushes around Snape’s house.”

“Ugh!” Hermione said again, “She’s not supposed to use her animagus form for reporting, now that she’s registered. She could be fired for this.”

“Yeah, right, Hermione,” Harry snorted, “Like any paper would fire Skeeter for a little detail as how she gets her information.”

Irritated, she read the article twice over. Skeeter had known that Hermione was staying with Snape and, of course, that they had gone out on Boxing Day to his muggle town. Skeeter had even interviewed the boy at the bakery on what they had purchased ( _“a selection of Christmas biscuits and two strongly spiked drinks”_ ). Hermione grumbled at that. It had only been spirited cocoa! The article gave blatant suggestion to their disappearance into his cabin and just _how_ they might have ‘stayed warm’ throughout the area’s storm. Followed by fabricated assumptions on their friends’ reactions to their relationship, it then went as far as to ponder if the pair would make their wizarding debut as an established couple at this year’s Ministry New Year’s Eve Gala.

She tossed the magazine back onto the tabletop. “That woman is ridiculous! Following us around and prodding that poor boy at the bakeshop! And why would Professor Snape and I even attend a Ministry function? Neither of us are members of the Ministry of Magic.” She shook her head. “Skeeter is just riling up the masses for her next pouf piece: ‘ _Passion at the Ministry Ball’_ or whatever terrible title she decides to give it.” Her frowned deepened at the thought. “Well, she’ll be sorely disappointed when I don’t turn up.”

“Erm,” Harry murmured.

“What?” 

Harry’s hand went to his hair, scuffing it awkwardly as he fidgeted in front of her. “About the Gala…”

“What about it?”

He gave her a chagrined look, took a sip of coffee and set the mug down on the table beside the magazine. “I sort of responded to the Ministry that you would be my plus one,” he said quickly and grimaced.

“ _Me?_ ” Hermione questioned, “Why not Malfoy? Wait…” She pointed back to the article. “Why is there nothing in there about you? Surely, a relationship between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy would be much juicer news for Rita Skeeter?”

When he said nothing, she prodded him. “Harry?”

Harry thrummed his fingers along his mug. “We’ve been laying low,” he shrugged, “I’ve been working. He’s still doing his thing at the foundation and whatever else… he comes here at night, that’s all. We haven’t gone out there,” he flourished his hand, gesturing to the expanse of the universe, “Plus, you know, your thing with Snape was sort of a diversion from ‘perfect-host’ Harry Potter, who didn’t appear to have any Christmas tryst of his own,” he said with a roll his eyes. “Ta for that, by the way.” He gave a side-smile.

“You’re not…hiding… are you? You and Malfoy?”

“What? No!” Harry dismissed, “It’s not that. We don’t care about anyone finding out. That’s why…” He sidestepped her, pulled out a chair and sat himself in it, looking up at her. “We’re going to meet up at the Ministry Gala together and we thought it might be better if you and Snape were there with us. I’d bring you and Malfoy would drag Snape along.”

She took the seat across from him and gave him a shrewd look. “You only want us there to take some of the attention off of you and Malfoy being seen together.”

He smirked at her. “Is that so bad?”

Hermione sighed, putting her hand to her temple and resting her head upon it. “Professor Snape will never go for this, you know. A Ministry ball, Harry? On New Year’s Eve? He’d rather willingly drink his own stock of poison.”

“Draco can convince him to come. Plus, couldn’t you?” He tilted his head. “After all, you two have been shacking up since Christmas.”

“Harry Potter!” Hermione scolded, but then found herself grinning. It was true, after all. “I’ll come,” she said, finally, “But Heaven help us all the day after when the new _Sleaze_ owls out.”

“Oh,” Harry said, picking up the magazine once more and throwing it into the rubbish bin, “I’ve already subscribed. Which reminds me.” He walked to the counter and picked up a small stack of envelopes and a parcel. “Your post,” he said and handed it to her.

It was quite the delivery for only being gone three days from the household, but she supposed she had been skiving off on her correspondence and responsibilities while she had been at Spinner’s End. She thanked Harry and retired to her room to sort through her mail.

Hermione sat on her bed. Marty had brought up her beaded bag for her earlier. It now sat open beside her as she sifted through her mail. Three _Prophets_ had come daily for her; she put those aside to be read later. One _Quibbler_ , also set aside for later perusal. A report had come from St. Mungo’s on her parents. She received regular updates every few days from the Healers there. She scanned the document, checking their stats and numbers twice, lest she missed anything of importance. No change. She sighed and set the letter on her bed. She would be back to visit them on New Year’s Day. How far away that seemed now…and yet…so much had happened since her last visit.

_(“This body you lay before me…”)_

She shuddered, her skin tingling as she remembered the way Snape’s mouth had felt on her skin.

_(“Was that my present?”)_

_(“Absolutely not.”)_

She smoothed away her hair from her face, unable to stop the upturn of her lips as she remembered them together. She wondered what the Professor was doing now, without her there. Did he miss her?

Oh, she was being silly. She had left him well and satisfied not more than an hour ago. She pushed aside some more letters and opened the package next. It was a potions ingredient. Baneberry extract. Hermione lifted the small vial from the box and examined it. She had been waiting for this ingredient to arrive since before Christmas. Baneberry extract was produced from the plant’s poisonous berries, but was believed to contain possible healing properties if administered correctly. She could begin to brew again, soon. Tonight, even, if she could prep her cauldron in time. She set the vial down on her nightstand and went back to her post.

There were a few letters from witches and wizards across the country she had been writing to, Healers and spell-creators, trying to find even the slightest possibility of help for her parents’ condition. None of them had anything new to tell her, but wished a report on the new potion she was going to try once the extract had arrived. Hermione sighed and tossed those letters aside as well. Only one remained. When she saw the handwriting, she felt a sinking in her stomach at once.

_Hermione—_

_Please don’t ignore me. When can we talk?_

_Is it true about you and Snape? Or is that just rumors?_

_\--Gin_

“It’s none of your bloody business,” Hermione muttered and folded up the letter.

She stood, grabbed the baneberry and went to find her cauldron.

 

* * *

 

She did not hear from the Professor that day or night. When she woke in the morning, however, Harry had reported that Malfoy was able to get Snape to agree to attend the Gala with them the evening after next. That made her grin, that somehow he had decided it tolerable to spend New Year’s with her. At a _ball,_ no less.

Not to say she dwelled on it. Hermione was busy with her potions project. She had prepared all the ingredients and was now in the library, cauldron prepped and ready, stirring and adding items into the pot. The air in the room had become quite humid…and her hair had reacted as only hers would—not just tripling in size but curling even further still outward from her skull.

Marty would come in to check on Hermione as she worked. The elf brought her tea periodically and made sure she ate throughout the day. He turned out to be a much nicer and more attentive elf to her than Kreacher, who always ignored her at best and grumbled about her at worst. Kreacher was much more focused on Harry’s needs and Marty was happy to have something to do that allowed him to give Kreacher a wide berth.

As distracting as quarreling house elves could have been, Hermione remained focused on her work. Her attention was on her potion and when it diverted, which was only seldom, it was to the subject of Professor Snape and the moments they had shared together since Christmas Eve.

When the clock in the library marked late evening, Hermione still had not heard from him. So she resigned herself to send her otter out to Spinner’s End, asking Snape if he was well. He returned a larger, yet, still misty and swirling form of a patronus back to her to confirm that, indeed, he was.

But that was all.

 

* * *

 

On the next day, the 30th, the silence from Snape continued. When Hermione had met Malfoy in the kitchen that morning, she found herself casually inquiring on the whereabouts of her Professor. Malfoy did not appear concerned that she had not heard from the Professor herself, but he reckoned that Snape was, indeed, fine, as he checked in with his Godfather daily.

So Snape was well enough to speak with someone he had _not_ spent the week shagging, than? That made it quite clear to her that she was being ignored.

This did not bode well with her throughout the day. They had shared a lovely three days together. They had read, drank tea, cooked together, made love. It had felt both comfortable and exciting at the same time, having ravaged the other one moment and curling up to finish _Jane Eyre_ the next. No matter how she remembered each intricate moment in hindsight, it pleased her. It filled her with quiet happiness.

But, she could not shake the notion that something was wrong. And, worse still, that there was a very good chance it would all go shattering apart at the ball.

 

* * *

 

On December 31st, Harry spent most of the day prepping himself for the evening’s event. Hermione knew that she should do the same, but instead she settled herself in her chair in the living room with her potions text and proceeded to mark notes in it amongst the chaos of the household. Because chaos is what it was.

The two house elves had made it their mission to help Harry and Hermione get ready for the party, but since Hermione was obviously not interested in such provisions, Marty was attempting to assist Kreacher with Harry’s needs. This did not go over well with Kreacher.

First, as Hermione had sat with her book in her lap, Marty had come running through the sitting room with Harry’s dress shoes in his arms as Kreacher screeched after him, brandishing the polish in one knobby hand. Harry had chased after them, trying to stop them both, but the elves tackled one another and could only be separated if each elf could shine one shoe all to themselves.

After that, it was the matter of Harry’s lunch and robe pressing, which both elves vied to accomplish on their own devices at once, resulting in a very unfortunate mustard stain on Harry’s dress shirt. Kreacher wailed at this desecration and proceeded to hurl tomatoes at Marty that had been previously set aside for the Master’s sandwich. The younger elf ducked and dodged the flying vegetables by apparating from spot to spot in the kitchen as Kreacher slung one after the other to each new spot Marty would appear, only to miss him completely and leave squashed and splattered tomato over the entirety of the room. Harry was hurriedly spelling cleansing charms in an attempt to remedy each mess, all the while hollering at the elves to forget the meal altogether and for-the-love-of-Merlin stop throwing tomatoes.

Later, while Harry nervously sat for a haircut from both Marty and Kreacher, each fighting over the other for the sheers, Hermione got up to check on her potion. She tended to it, stirring and counter-stirring as needed. Then, seeing that it needed at least another twenty-four hours to brew, she left it for the night.

It was only when Marty had left with a _pop_ to return to assist his master at Malfoy Manor, and Kreacher had let out a whelp of relief, that Hermione found she could no longer put off readying herself for the Ministry Gala.

It was then that she discovered she had almost nothing to wear. Malfoy had offered to lend her something of his mother’s he kept in storage when he had popped in early that morning, bringing coffee and a boutonniere for Harry. She had declined, but his words had reminded her that she had a storage unit of her _own_ to sift through.

With only two hours until the start of the Ministry’s party, Hermione took a cab to a storage center on the outskirts of London. It was a muggle establishment and she used her own stores of muggle money to pay for her locker there. She walked down the familiar corridor to the shed marked 237, her shed, and inserted the key.

The door opened and unveiled boxes and boxes of her parents’ things. It had been Harry who had assisted her when she returned home, newly separated from Ginny, to box up her parents’ belongings and bring them here to be stored until…

Until she would have to part with them, one way or another.

She sighed now, assessing the brown piles of cardboard that held her family’s memories and keepsakes. She knew the exact dress she had come for: the deepest purple satin, akin to the color of a darkening sky. Her mother had worn it for a wedding they had attended when Hermione was small.

And Hermione, as a child, had looked upon her mother with loving awe. That her mother could look so beautiful, made Hermione ache with childish longing for the day she herself could wear a dress like that.

It seemed like today was the day.

Hermione cast a locator spell and the box that must have contained the purple dress shook vigorously. She walked over, opened it and lifted the soft material delicately in her hands. It sent memories washing over her: her mother’s hair up off her shoulders, her father helping zipper the back of the dress, and a pre-Hogwarts Hermione, clicking around the room in her mother’s heels with magic sparking from her fingertips so that her mother’s jewelry floated around the room.

_Her mother’s jewels._ She had forgotten they even existed!

On a whim, Hermione shouted, “ _Accio_ diamonds!” and, miraculously, three items came zooming towards her from beneath a pile of well-worn coats. She caught them in her palm: two small diamond stud earrings, no bigger than half a karat each, and a bracelet. A simple silver chain with one small diamond at its center. The pieces were modest but cherished dearly.

Hermione clutched them tightly to her chest, eyes swelling with emotion. They were small treasures. Not for their monetary value, but because they were part of her mother. It was a long moment until she tucked them inside the pocket of her jeans. Then she waved her wand, shutting the door to the locker with herself still inside, and apparated on the spot.

 

* * *

 

She arrived home with just enough time to shower and dress. She was harried, pulling on her mother’s gown and tying her hair back in a cascading plait. Truth be told, there were many strands that had found their way astray, curling down her back and neck and framing her face. She left them that way, too rushed to care. She did a sweeping application of gloss on her lips and mascara on her lashes. Anything else was far beyond her abilities. Then Hermione took her mother’s earrings and pierced them through the holes in each lobe. She clasped the bracelet around her left wrist and turned it so that the stone faced front.

There. That would do for now.

She went out into the hallway, clutching her shoes in her hand just in time to see Harry emerge from his room clad in his finest dress robes.

“’Mione,” Harry said, “Blimey, you look beautiful.”

“And you,” she said, “an improvement from the Yule Ball,” she teased and he rolled his eyes. 

“What a nightmare, that night!” He handed her the boutonniere Malfoy had given him. “Mind helping pin this?”

She took the flower, a dark trumpet lily, and pinned it to the lapel of his robes. “Nervous?” she asked and he gave her a disparaging look.

“Of Malfoy? Please. You?”

She thought for a moment an inexplicable _Yes! I’m nervous that something is going to go wrong!_ But she instead gave him a wink and they descended the staircases together. 

When they came to the fireplace, Harry placed Floo powder in each of their hands before he stood in the hearth and shouted, “ _Ministry of Magic, Atrium!_ ”

_Please be there_ , Hermione thought to herself of Snape, and stepped into the fireplace in turn.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

She came out twirling. She would have liked to believe it was some elegant entrance, but the reality was that she was tripping over the floor-length hem of her gown from her landing inside the Ministry fireplace and was now falling out of it onto the Atrium floor.

“Granger, you never disappoint.” She heard Malfoy’s voice as he expertly caught her the way only a Seeker could as she fell from the Floo. “Figures you’d trip your way into the Ministry.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” she shot back at him, but he was grinning at her warmly enough that she gave him a sarcastic pout and righted herself.

“You all right?” Harry said, stepping up next to them. And when she stood back and saw the pair of them standing together, both in their grandest tuxedo robes and matching black trumpet lily boutonnieres, she suddenly got just how well they fit together. How…strangely right it was. All the bickering and fighting and contests and hate…boiled down and simmered to two wizards who were perfectly matched.

She wondered if people would see the same when Snape stood next to her.

“Where’s Professor Snape?” she asked at the thought.

“He’s meeting us here,” said Malfoy, “Said he’d find us inside.” He motioned with his head to the stretch of the Atrium that had been set up for the Gala. “Before we head in, though,” he added, digging into the inner pocket of his robes. He produced a long, thin velvet box and Hermione thought for one strange moment that Malfoy was about to present Harry with some grand gift, when he surprised her by offering it to _her_ instead.

“This is on loan,” Malfoy said quickly, “So don’t get any ideas. But, thought this might improve your dress. It was my mother’s.”

She took the box, wondering what of Narcissa Malfoy’s Draco would deem her worthy to wear. Opening it, it revealed a necklace. Strings of violet-colored stones met in the center at one, huge teardrop shaped amethyst.

“This is…” she trailed off, unsure of what to say. It was a stunning necklace, of course. It was also large and…expensive…and…ostentatious. It was a Malfoy necklace through and through.

She looked up to Malfoy’s one gray eye. He gave a shrug. “Someone should wear it.”

He lifted the necklace from the box with nimble fingers and brought it to her neck. It was heavy with the weight of the jewels, and Hermione felt much too small for such a piece. Draco clasped it quickly at the nape of her neck, sweeping her stray tresses away with his wrist.

When he was finished, Draco stepped away and seemed altogether unfazed by his mother’s necklace around her neck. Harry was beaming at her, slightly embarrassed but obviously besotted with Malfoy, as she fingered the giant gem at her clavicle. Then Malfoy took Harry’s hand in one swift motion and they stepped forward into the Gala.

 

* * *

 

The entire Atrium was done up in gold. Gold swags of fabric draped from every corner, golden lights illuminated the ceiling. Gold tablecloths, gold chairs. A golden tile dance floor had been set up in one section of the Atrium with a band playing on a small stage above it. The other side had rows of tables of food in a buffet, from which some witches and wizards had already begun to sample. House elves weaved in and out of the crowd, refilling glasses and clearing plates. In the center of the room was the large, golden fountain that had been restored to its original depiction of the wizard, witch, centaur and house elf. Only the water that came from it shimmered with glittering sparkles. A large gilded clock towered over the room. Its hands, the size of Hagrid, marked 9pm. The party was already well under way.

A tall witch in a pink gown stood sentinel at the front with a roll of parchment and quill in her hand.

“Names?” she asked without looking up from her paper.

Harry cleared his throat. “Harry Potter and guest, and Draco Malfoy, guest yet to arrive.”

“Potter…” the woman said, scrolling down the parchment for the name. Then she stopped, her eyes slowly lifting to meet that telltale scar on Harry’s forehead. “Great Merlin!” she said, side stepping at once out of their way, “And Mr. Malfoy. Go on ahead. Go on ahead!”

Draco smirked at her reaction, but before passing through he put a hand to the woman’s arm. “My guest is Mr. Severus Snape. Please allow him in at once when he turns up.”

She nodded fervently, scribing down the Professor’s name as not to forget it. “Of course, Mr. Malfoy. Have a good time!”

Draco pivoted on back to them on his heel and they continued on.

“Mr. Potter!” a voice called and all three of them turned at once. There was a small wizard tottering towards them holding up a camera between his two hands. 

“Ferris Oftenshoot from the _Daily Prophet_ ,” he introduced himself, smiling. He was clad in dress robes himself, but had a _PRESS_ tag around his neck, “I’ve been asked to take some photos of the event. Would you mind a couple of shots?”

Harry had always been awkward with his celebrity, now more than ever with the press that always seemed to want an interview or photo at some event he was forced to attend. But Draco stepped in, smoothing his platinum hair with one sweep of his palm and sent a dazzling grin at the shorter man with the camera.

“Yeah, we’ll take a shot,” he said confidently and then put his arm around Harry in a way that was very clear the two were a couple. Harry turned, shocked, at Malfoy, his face away from the camera as the flash blew.

Oftenshoot stepped back, smiling gratefully at them. “Thanks!” Then he skittered away.

The flash had caught the attention of several other wizards and witches nearby. Seeing that it was Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, they descended upon them at once. Hermione did not recognize any of these, but the boys seemed to know them well enough that they all shook hands and began talking about work.

At this, Hermione let herself slip further away from the group and grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing elf. She did not fancy getting dragged into Ministry talk no more than she wanted to hinder Harry’s first official date with Draco Malfoy.

She looked longingly to the front of the Atrium where the witch in the pink dress stood. No sign of her Professor at all. She sighed, ticking her fingernails on the glass of her champagne flute. _Where was he?_

After a moment, she turned away. A watched cauldron never brews, as the saying was. She walked idly for a while, looking desperately for someone she recognized and finding no one. She spotted Kingsley from afar, but he appeared to be in deep conversation with several foreign wizards whom she did not desire to interrupt. There were lots of groups and gaggles of partygoers, all laughing and talking and drinking and having, what appeared to be, a delightful time. Then there was Hermione, standing solitary and awkward with her lone glass of champagne.

Oh, _when_ would the Professor get here? So she could enjoy the company of someone as removed from the Ministry as she. Not to mention the added delight of his hand on the small of her back and his scent of eucalyptus and cauldron fire enveloping her as he brooded beside her, sneering his lip at every activity he surveyed.

Perhaps, she mused, he might even be persuaded to dance with her.

She looked out to where the band was performing. Several witches and wizards were already on the gold tiled floor, dancing happily to the upbeat music. The image of Professor Snape bobbing amongst them was as improbable as it was comical. She smirked, thinking of him ever dancing to anything, and her eyes drifted to the entrance once more, without her even consciously meaning to do so.

No Professor.

She did see, with dread, the blonde hair and red wire-rimmed glasses of Rita Skeeter. PRESS tag around her neck, she walked and chatted shortly with guests as a quill and parchment hovered beside her, taking notes.

Hermione immediately checked the room for Harry. He was a safe enough distance from Skeeter, standing over by the fountain halfheartedly holding a noisemaker someone had handed him. Malfoy was next to him, hand at Harry’s waist as he leaned in to speak into Harry’s ear. Hermione could see Harry grinning as he nodded in agreement to whatever Draco was whispering to him. As Draco pulled away, he pressed a brief kiss to Harry’s temple, sending a half-blushed, half-cocky smile across Harry’s face that Hermione could discern from across the hall. It was then that Harry noticed her watching them. He looked startled, but then smiled and waved Hermione over to join them.

She shook her head. He was having _too_ brilliant a time and she didn’t want to ruin it by hovering around them as she waited for Snape. Instead, she pointed in Skeeter’s direction, indicating the location of the reporter (who had inserted herself into Kingsley’s lot, quill scratching frantically at her side) as a tip to steer clear.

Harry found Skeeter in the crowd. His eyes flitted back to Hermione as he nodded and gave an exaggerated grimace before alerting Draco of the same. Hermione saw Malfoy cock his head to where Skeeter stood, scoff loudly, and then promptly grab Harry by the hand and lead him straight for her.

Hermione held her breath as she watched the pair of them approach Skeeter: Harry, with obvious reluctance, and Draco, with the confident swagger of absolute resolve. They walked up to her, hand in hand, and she regarded them with eager eyes and a ravenous smile. She gave Kingsley a passing flitter of her fingernails in adieu before turning her attention, and quill, to the fresh story in front of her.

Draco slid his hands into his pockets as he spoke casually with Skeeter, unperturbed by the quill that darted back and forth along the parchment or by her quick-fire questions. Harry, on the other hand, simply stared in wonder at his boyfriend as he took on the top wizarding press reporter without a fuck to give in the world.

  

* * *

 

Hours passed. Hermione ate, a little. She mingled, a _very_ little. But mostly she kept close to the entrance of the party with a growing feeling of consternation with every passing moment Snape was not there.

Even though she felt she knew better, there was a small, incessant voice inside of her that began to chip away: _He’s standing you up,_ it said. _You warmed his bed for the lonely winter holiday and that was all well and good but now he’s standing you up on New Year’s Eve at a bloody Ministry Ball of all things!_ , it said.

“Bollocks,” she answered it out loud, “If he thinks he can just disappear forever after he…”

_(made me feel alive)_

She bit her lip. _Was_ it bollocks, though? Didn’t she have some sense that something would go wrong tonight? And his words…his hysteric, trembling words resounded in her head.

_(“I do not wish to feel that again. I deplore the very idea!”)_

Hermione stood there amongst the crowd. The music played, glasses clinked, somewhere Harry and Draco were having the night of their lives, and still no sight of Snape.

_(“I’m falling in love with you, you idiot.”)_

She had said it. She had told him exactly how she had felt in that cold, darkened room, nearly naked in nothing but his robes. And… he had not said it back. He had pulled her close, yes, had brushed her bare flesh with his fingers, yes, and they had spent the subsequent days in each other’s arms. He had alluded to feeling… something. But did he ever actually tell her? Did he ever respond to her declaration in the same three words? 

He did not.

Now it was _she_ that was working herself into a tither. Could it be that she had _thought_ she had known-it-all, had thought he had been confessing love but had only, in fact, confessed his loathe for such a concept and now wanted to rid himself of her entirely?

She realized, belatedly, that she was walking. Walking towards the entrance, her eyes set on the point of apparition. Where she would send herself to Spinner’s End for answers and find out just what he was up to, one hour to midnight on the night he planned to meet her and never showed.

Then her plan shattered with the sight of flaming ginger hair.

“What’s got you off running?” Ginny asked, stepping in front of Hermione’s way.

Hermione stomach curled. She had not seen this coming. She had put Ginny far from her mind since Christmas Eve. Only those short moments when she had opened Ginny’s letters had she let herself think of her. And here she was, yet again, popping back in when Hermione wanted to get out.

“ _Ginevra_ ,” Hermione breathed and took in the sight of her. Ginny wore a form fitting, slinky and sequined knee-length gown in glittering silver. Her hair fell loose upon her shoulders and, of course, her lips were lined in bright red.

Ginny gave a small smile indicating that, _yes, indeed, it was her_. “I thought you might have seen me and made a bolt for it.”

“I wasn’t bolting. I had no idea you were even here,” Hermione said, shifting on her feet and wondering how quickly she could get away. “Isn’t this Ministry guests only?”

“You’re not exactly Ministry, either,” Ginny answered, scowling. Then she sighed, “Dad gave me his invitation. Said it shouldn’t go to waste while he’s abroad.” She leaned in, moving her foot so that it was not quite a step, but allowed her to get closer. “I took it because I read you might be here.” 

“Oh?” Hermione said, her eyebrows arching so high it would rival only those of Headmaster McGonagall, “So you _read_ your _Sleaze_ now? I thought you might just get it straight from your insider source.”

Ginny groaned, running a hand through her hair. “You figured out that was Hannah, huh?”

Hermione ignored the question. Because _of course_ she had figured it out. “You sent me letters.” 

“I did, yeah.” Ginny shifted on her heels. “I wanted to talk.” She motioned to an elf for more champagne, and the little elf brought two glasses over, which Ginny took for herself. She tipped them each to her lips, drinking the entire contents in one slurp. “Come,” she said, placing the empty glasses on a nearby table. She took Hermione by the hand and dragged her forward.

Hermione thought they were headed for a quiet corner of the room. One where they could talk privately to each other and she could hear out everything Ginny meant to tell her. But instead the witch brought her to the dance floor, sweeping her into a crowd of people who were dancing enthusiastically to the fast-paced music.

Hermione stood stock still as Ginny pressed up against her, chest to the exposed skin of her arm, stomach to hip, and began dancing in rhythm to the song.

“This isn’t talking,” Hermione said. She had to shout to be heard, even in the confined space.

Ginny shrugged, unconcerned at this minute detail. She raised her hands above her head and brought them down around Hermione to land on her hips. They rested there lightly as she slid against her.

“I ditched Hannah,” Ginny said as she danced, “We fought about that bloody article. I couldn’t stand that she talked to Skeeter about you.”

Hermione resisted, refusing to move in time with Ginny. Not that it deterred her. The music pumped around them, the dance floor crowding, pushing them tighter together. Hermione was nudged in the back by another dancer’s elbow. It sent her colliding with Ginny’s chest.

“What she did was awful and shitty,” Ginny continued, “And how I acted at your party was awful and shitty. I want to make up and put it all behind us. Start fresh or…something.” Feminine hands found their way to Hermione’s shoulders, cupping the back of them and holding Hermione to her. Ginny’s eyes shut as she danced, her hair swinging and brushing against Hermione’s neck.

Hermione closed her own eyes, thinking of Harry’s words. Spark and chaos. That was Ginny, all right. That was Ginny here and now. She heard the music, the people, the sounds of the party, all so deafening in her ears, and felt Ginny’s body hot against her.

“Ginev- Ginny, stop,” Hermione said, attempting to wiggle free.

“Hmm?” Ginny hummed, her arms winding around Hermione’s waist, hands loose and gliding over her dress. 

The crowd of dancers was so dense there was not much room to move. The music blared louder. Ginny pressed closer. Hermione opened her eyes and found Ginny’s locked on hers. She felt a sinking feeling come over her. Like she was being pulled under water. The lights of the party dimmed and played off of the sequins of Ginny’s dress.

“I know, I know what you’re doing,” she heard herself say and felt like she was pounding against the walls of her own skull to stop this right now and walk away.

“Good. Why else do you think I came tonight?” Ginny’s neck and chest were now glistening with sweat. Strands of her red hair clung to them.

“To talk to me…” Hermione breathed, thinking that maybe this was the something that was wrong tonight. And that she couldn’t stop it from happening.

Ginny shook her head, her teeth dragging across her bottom lip. “Not talk.”

She leaned in, one hand slipping behind Hermione’s neck and embracing it as the other gripped her waist. Those red lips pursed forward, drawing in until they were all but brushing Hermione’s own. Ginny moaned a breathy sigh that Hermione could hear despite the thumping music and attempted to close the space between them with a kiss. A kiss that would pull Hermione further under and claim her as her own. 

That woke Hermione up. She felt herself rising, cresting the water she had been under. She shoved Ginny away from her with a sharp push of her arms and Ginny fumbled, staring back with confused yet yearning eyes.

And Hermione knew. She knew Ginny had come here with the intent to pull Hermione back to her. To be the person she had been when they were together in Australia. Heady, reckless, Hermione. Ginny still craved her. Longed for her like an addict. Like Hermione was a personal brand of heroine just waiting to be tapped.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Hermione said, stealing her body back from Ginny.

“ _Why?_ What’s so wrong with wanting you?” 

“Because I know it’s not _me_ you want. It’s _her_. You know I’m not her anymore.”

“That’s not fair-“ Ginny started.

“Not fair? It’s not fair of you to try to force me back into that person,” Hermione cut her off, “I want to be me, Ginny. Not someone just for you. And I want someone who sees me…”

_(“You are vibrant and strong”)_

“for who I am.”

“You can’t mean Snape,” Ginny bit back, her voice as harsh as it was shocked.

Without hesitation, Hermione answered back like a benediction. “ _Yes. Snape!_ ”

Ginny looked revolted, her lips curling back in a sick grimace. “He’s so old, Hermione…and miser—“

“Of course he’s old. And miserable. And isolated. I know who he is,” Hermione rushed, “I see him. I see his qualities and flaws unabashedly, and he sees me just the same. He makes me want to be _me_ , not someone else. And I--” 

She stopped herself. Ginny looked back at her, face incredulous but waiting for Hermione’s final words.

_And I love him_ , was what Hermione was going to say. But she didn’t. Instead, she felt more than ever the urge to leave and get to her Professor before the night was through. Because she had to know. She had to know if he loved her after all. If her flaws and qualities made him fall deeper for her, just as his had done to her.

“I…. need to go. Excuse me,” Hermione finished with finality and turned away.

“Hermione!” Ginny called after her.

Hermione did not turn around. She strode onward, leaving the dance floor and Ginny behind.

She marched towards the exit of the Ministry. She was getting the hell out of this party.

She was going to Spinner’s End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> Personal brand of heroin= a Twilight reference. lol.
> 
>  
> 
> 2 more chapters to go!


	12. Chapter 12

 

Hermione walked as quickly as she could through the crowd.

Purple dress cascading in a trail behind her, she swerved and maneuvered her way through the mob of guests to get to the apparition point of the Ministry’s exit.

Her name was being called, far and distant. It was Ginny, or Harry, or even Draco. Trying to stop her… trying to stop her from getting the bloody hell from this blasted ball and getting to her Professor. Because something _was_ ending tonight. She could feel it. In his absence. In his silence. There was something that would wither and perish and she needed to get to him and be sure it wasn’t _them_.

She went on, ignoring the voice. Her heels clacked with her quickening speed and when the voice called out again, loud and sharp through the sounds of the party, it was not her name, but the hiss of a spell that hit her straight in the back.

“ _Impedimenta!_ ”

Her body slowed to a crawl. Enraged, she made to turn, to wail and throttle against the hateful soul who dared to hex her in her moment of intent, but _oh!_ how slow she moved!

A pair of cold hands came to her shoulders and the spell lifted. She looked up, reaching for her own wand (hidden cleverly within the plait of her hair) and saw the dark eyes of her Professor glaring down at her.

“What curse has gotten to you that you would flee so insistently from me?" his voice accused and his eyes seemed to penetrate her own, opening them wide to search for an answer.

“ _From_ you?” she panted, still looking around in disbelief that he was standing here in front of her.

_To you._ I was fleeing _to you_ , you bastard.

“Where have you _been?_ ” she pressed, anger blooming beneath the startle he caused. “I’ve been waiting all night for you. Stupidly standing around in this dress!” She batted at the fabric of her mother’s gown. “Dragged to that bloody dance floor-”

“You’ve been dancing?” he asked suspiciously. 

She gaped at him. Did he really care if she had been dancing, when he had ignored her and stood her up on New Year’s bleeding Eve!? 

“It’s none of your business what I’ve been doing as you were not here!”

“I see,” he said, arms swooping across his chest, “I suppose it is similarly not my business to know _who_ you have decided to spend the evening with in my absence.”

“I wasn’t-” she stammered, “I wasn’t _spending_ it with anyone. I was looking for _you!_ ”

“On the dance floor? That is highly unlikely.” 

She threw her arms up, frustrated and exhausted.

“You should have been here,” she said, the fury in her voice fading to blame. “You should have been with me. _You_ should have been dancing with me. Instead of whatever it was you thought was more important than me tonight.”

He stiffened at that, his eyes casting dark shadows as he looked down at her.

“Miss Granger, do not insult me. Do not assume what you do not know,” his voice dropped to a hateful tone despite his words, “There is nothing in my known existence that more important than you.” 

“Than why-?” she started but he silenced her with his hand closing upon her own.

“If it is dancing you desire, dancing is what you will have.”

_What?_

He must have meant it. Because she found him leading her back through the crowd to the very dance floor she had just abandoned. She had a clenching feeling in her stomach that Ginny would still be there.

But she was gone.

The music had slowed and the sounds of a soft voice full of longing and regret filled the room as the band crooned on the subject of fitful love.

She could not believe that his arm had placed itself around her. And that his black dress robes met with the purple nightfall of her dress, and that her chest was pressed tightly against his, her breasts flat against her, making her gasp as she took in air. His cane was sturdy against his left side, and he leaned into it only a little as he led her in a simple four-step box around the floor. She refused to look into his eyes. She would not match that heated gaze she could feel upon her. She studied, instead, his shoulder, and the empty lapel she did not think to adorn with a boutonniere. Not that he would have worn it, surely.

He was here, with no explanation. Without even a hint of mindfulness that he had abandoned her. In fact, he was downright convinced that she had misread the entire ordeal. What was she supposed to say to that? What kind of man had she attached herself to that would see fit to ignore a woman for days on end and arrive late to a party where she was expecting him? A selfish man? A solitary man? A man who

_(“The concept of love is so detestable to me…”)_

resisted the very idea of them together?

Hermione felt his fingertips at her collarbone as the weight of the amethyst stone lifted from her chest.

“Where did you get this?”

She looked down and the large, violet-colored gem lay resting on Snape’s open palm. “It belonged to Narcissa Malfoy,” she answered.

He hissed a sharp in take of air, appalled. “It is not you.”

“Why?” she asked, peeking up at him through her darkened lashes, “Because it is expensive and befitting of a pureblood family?” 

“No,” he said, letting the stone fall back to her chest. His lip curled in distaste. “Because it is garish and overstated.” His eyes drifted up to the edge of her ears and she knew he was considering her earrings. She shut her eyes, for she felt unable to listen to one negative word about them. It would shatter her. But instead his fingers encircled her left wrist and lifted it up to her fluttering open lids. “This,” he said, “is you. And those diamonds on your lobes. _They_ are you. Elegant and remarkably beautiful in their simplicity.” 

She let out a breath she did not know she was holding. A magnificent sigh of relief. “They are my mother’s. And the dress. I borrowed them all.”

“They suit you,” he said, and his hand released her own and went to the small of her back, holding her to him as they swayed. She felt her heart bursting in her chest. She missed her mother desperately. The fact that he had deemed her worthy of her mother’s trinkets made her feel closer to the woman who lay still in a hospital bed. 

“Miss Granger,” he said into her hair, “Would you like your gift now?”

She pulled her face back, not enough to break their embrace, but so that she could see him fully. “Yes,” she said, nodding in quiet amazement that the moment was finally upon her. “I nearly forgot.”

“It is fortunate, then, that I did not,” he drawled and removed the hand on her back to produce a small bottle from his pocket. Her first thought was that it was drink, but then, as she nervously took the bottle between her own fingers, she saw that it was- 

“A potion?” she asked, turning over the clear glass bottle in her hand and watching its contents swirl in motion.

“Yes.”

The potion was murky green, with what looked like gritty thistles floating in it. It did not look appetizing at all, nor did it register as any known substance in her mind. It was a newly concocted one, of that she was sure.

“Am I meant to guess its purpose? Or will you tell me?”

“I thought it obvious,” he said, “It is a potion to revive your parents.”

They had come to the corner of the dance floor, and he made to turn her so that they would go round once more, but she stopped, pulling away from him so that she was at the very lip of the tiled floor and that the other dancers were forced to moved past them as the song went on.

“ _What did you say?_ ”

His brow furrowed in confusion at her reaction. “It will restore your mother and father’s health,” he reiterated, “Does that displease you?”

Her eyes flitted to the small bottle once more as her fist tightened her grip on the glass. “You made this…”

“It is a gift for you, inspired by you.” 

“Inspired?” she questioned.

“I set about creating a potion for comatose reversal the day I arrived home after your church service. As I had little to go on about your parents’ condition, merely that it was Dark and self-induced, I made a call on St. Mungo’s the day after Christmas, Miss Granger, and inquired more information on your parents’ case.”

“They gave it to you?” she frowned, upset that St. Mungo’s would release confidential information.

“Of course not.” Snape shook out his hair. “However, my… Godson was able to assist with obtaining such records.”

“ _Malfoy!?_ ” 

He ignored her. “The ingredients I required were… inventive and its uses theoretical. Still, I began brewing that evening with you asleep in my living room. When you left my home two days later, the potion and your parents became my permanent commitment. If I was not at the hospital, reviewing updates and vitals, I was home, meticulous in my ministrations for your gift.”

“That’s why you ignored me?” she blinked, “Why you shut me out?”

“ _Shut you out?_ ” he balked, “I did nothing but toil and labor towards fulfilling your very prayer. It took nearly every minute of my time to yield this potion properly. It was almost as insufferable to create as the woman for which I concocted it. It settled only minutes before I arrived.”

“I didn’t know that,” she shook her head, “I was sure something was wrong. I thought you… were having second thoughts. Or, rather, repeat _first_ thoughts about us.”

“After you so brashly scolded me for having those thoughts in the first place?”

“Yes,” she let out a short laugh. “It sounds trivial when _you_ say it. But… Merlin,” she sighed and held up the bottle once more so that it was illuminated in golden light, “We were doing the same thing, you know. I am brewing a potion just like this. Only… mine is red.”

He sneered. “Gryffindors.”

Hermione frowned. “It was the baneberry, not my design that produced the color.”

Snape seemed to ponder that. “Baneberry?” he asked. “You used a poisonous extract?”

She nodded. “It was experimental at best, but my theory was that the baneberry-”

“Would be insufficient in this instance,” he shot down, “Its toxins are not nearly as aggressive as the purpose necessitates.”

Her heart dropped as she looked back to the glass bottle, crestfallen. “Then I failed again. I thought for sure the venomous constituents would attach themselves to the areas of Dark Magic...”

“Miss Granger.”

“… and use them as a host, weakening the spells while injecting them with enough toxins to allow—“

“ _Miss Granger_.” 

She looked up.

“Your theory was correct. It was the _ingredient_ that was not. Baneberry is poisonous, yes, but _not_ parasitic. The potion you hold in your hand contains an ingredient that is both. And a potent one at that.”

She waited for him to tell her and when he did, he surprised her by swooping near her and wrapping his hand around her own that clenched the bottle. He squeezed them both tightly. 

“ _Mistletoe._ ” 

She didn’t believe it. “You’re kidding,” she breathed, “Mistletoe? I would have never thought…”

He let out a growl. “Of course you would have. You would have tried the baneberry and it would have failed and you would have discovered the need for a hemiparasitic component. I arrived at this conclusion first _because_ of you. _You_ inspired the potion,” he repeated, “Your determination to find a cure, your faith in your God that you would find one, your love for your parents, and…” he put his hand to her face, brushing her cheek, “the first moment my lips touched your skin… _that_ is how I thought to include it. And it is _that_ very mistletoe which resides in this bottle.”

Her eyes went wide, staring at his, which were so dark with longing. Longing for her to understand his gift, to understand _him_ and his need to please her and understand that he, Snape, actually loved her. He loved her and though he may never say the words--he was himself, after all-- he would show her in his own way. And that, she realized, was more than enough for her.

She looked up to him, his hand on her face, on the precipice of this dance floor holding a gift of hope he had bottled for her. 

Reader, she kissed him.

She kissed him with trembling lips that parted when they married to his. Her mouth thanked him in ways her words would never touch, and her tongue promised a future for their bodies that they held so tightly together.

“ _You_ nicked the Meandering Mistletoe from Grimmauld Place?” she panted with a beaming smile when they broke apart. “Harry had been wondering to where it went.”

He pressed his nose to her temple, breathing in the scent of her happiness. “I performed a Summoning Spell before we left for the chapel. If you think I was going to let that flower incite any other wizard to feel even a hair of what I felt for you, you have greatly misjudged me.”

She laughed, holding him to her with the bottle in her hand. “I can’t believe you brewed our mistletoe into a revitalization potion. _Romantic_ ,” she teased him.

“Hardly. That is joke shop mistletoe, Miss Granger. Not exactly the finest floral for wielding romance.”

She froze.

Joke shop mistletoe. It was charmed Meandering Mistletoe in the Professor’s potion. And not just as one small element, but, it was the _key ingredient_.

“Professor!” she rushed, her heart beat growing faster in her chest. “Meandering Mistletoe has an expiration date. It self-terminates on New Year’s Day.”

She remembered Harry’s words. Remembered the small print on the box from George’s shop. The mistletoe that founded her parents’ cure would only last until midnight.

The Professor’s jaw tightened and she watched as his gaze rose to the giant clock that loomed above the Atrium. It was 11:49pm.

“We have eleven minutes to administer that potion.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> “It is not you…” and the entire necklace scene is a direct reference to Dawson’s Creek and the alternative prom episode where Pacey and Joey dance and he comments on her mother’s bracelet vs the expensive earrings that belonged to Dawson’s mother. If you've never seen this episode... omg you are missing out.
> 
> “Reader, she kissed him” – is a paraphrase of one of Jane Eyre’s famous quotes. Credit to Charolette Bronte
> 
> “Snape, actually, loved her” is about as close as this fic gets to the movie “Love, Actually”. I phrased it similar to how the title of the movie is mentioned in the film, as part of a larger sentence.


	13. Chapter 13

 

She gave no verbal response. Instead, she took off as fast as she could manage with the Professor at her side. One hand clutched her present in her fist and the other hiked up her dress, allowing her to move swifter despite her heels. Snape moved instinctually, using wandless magic as he flicked his cane-free hand this way and that, clearing tables and chairs and, yes, even people out of their way as they rushed through the Atrium towards the exit. 

“Places, all!” a tall wizard was calling, “Gather around the clock! We are minutes away to midnight!”

“Grab your kissing partner!” a witch shouted gaily, “Let’s ring in the New Year!”

Witches and wizards began swarming excitedly toward the center of the Atrium. Snape continued to clear their path. Hermione reached out, grabbing his free hand and heading into a jog.

“Get ready!” the first wizard cried again, steering the crowd towards the clock, “Midnight is coming! Eight minutes!”

They were so close, so very close. The witch in pink at the front of the Gala watched them bound toward her in shocked horror. She leapt out of the way as they came barreling through.

“ _What do you think you’re doing?!_ ” she shouted at their backs.

“Is the Floo open?” Hermione called to the Professor.

He answered her with a whip of his wand and the first fireplace in their row blazed green. She could hear Snape struggling for breath beside her now. His gait was slagging behind her.

_Come on_ , she urged him, pulling his hand. She could not do this without him.

She fisted the powder that lay in a bowl at the beginning of the row of hearths and threw it madly into the fireplace. They darted into it and she cried, _“St. Mungo’s Hospital!”_

They vanished from the Ministry. It was 11:54.

 

* * *

 

The Floo fireplaces at St. Mungo’s were quiet at five minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve. The third fireplace on the right began to glow bright green and two figures emerged inside of it, clutching hands and panting for air.

Hermione wasted no time. Floo transportation was on the basement floor of the building, as she knew. The lifts were close by, but she feared any delay and although she knew it was prohibited, she grabbed the Professor tight to her chest and turned on the spot, apparating them directly to the fourth floor.

“Excuse me!” the witch at the desk exclaimed when not one, but two people appeared suddenly in front of her, “Interior apparition is restricted to medical personnel only! Stop! Come back!”

Snape sent a spell at the woman and she fell directly asleep on her own desk as Hermione ran down the hallway to her parents’ hospital room. She could hear a radio playing from a nearby room. It announced the time of 11:57. 

Professor Snape was not far behind her. Hermione’s hand grabbed the handle of her parents’ door and turned, feeling her heart beat franticly in her chest. Snape’s hand was there to push the door open, letting them both pour in with less than three minutes to spare.

She unclasped the bottle from her fingers, pulling the stopper and tossing it to the floor.

11:58, the radio called. Two minutes to midnight.

“Miss Granger,” Snape said and she spun to face him, hair falling about her shoulders, her plait completely undone and a wild look about her. “Half each, directly by mouth.”

She nodded and sprinted to the bed, falling to her knees beside her father first. 

He lay still and calm and unknowing of all that was happening around him: the sounds of the New Year’s approach, and the sound of his daughter’s last prayer for this potion to bring him back to her. 

Hermione tilted her father’s chin slightly so that he would not choke, then she opened his mouth and eased half the bottle’s contents into it. She massaged his throat until he swallowed instinctually. Then she turned to her mother.

11:59.

She did the same ministrations she had provided to her father to the woman whose dress and jewelry she wore. Hermione tipped the bottle over her mother’s lips as the wizard on the radio began to count down.

_Please_ , she prayed. _Please work._

 “Ten…”

_Just a little bit more…._

“Nine..." 

_Almost done…_

“Eight…” 

_There._

“Seven…”

_Please._

“Six…”

_Please, God._

“Five…” 

A hand on her shoulder. 

“Four…”

Snape’s voice in her ear.

“Three…”

“Miss Granger…”

“Two…”

“Look…”

“One…”

She opened her eyes that had been shut in prayer. Before her, were two stirring figures. First, just the fingers began to stretch and unfurl. Then hands gliding along the cotton blankets. Lids fluttering. Until…

“Hermione?” her mother’s voice sounded. And Hermione’s heart gave way.

She felt herself jump into her mother’s arms, eyes pouring tears of joy. She planted kisses on every inch of her mother’s face and then dove unto her father’s bed to do the same. 

Cheers and shouts of _Happy New Year!_ came from the hall and Hermione let out an exuberant cry of victory.

“Happy New Year, indeed!” she shouted, hugging her father close to her and kissing him once more on the cheek.

The potion had worked. The _mistletoe_ had worked. Her parents were beginning to sit up in their beds, looking past her in question to the remaining person in the room. At that, Hermione leapt to her feet, reeling to find her Professor.

He had stepped so far back that he had almost become one with the wall. A small smile was visible on his otherwise calm face as she turned to him.

“Happy New Year, Miss Granger,” he said evenly and she rushed for him, her arms flinging out to gather him up against her.

“You did it,” she said, happier than she had felt her entire life, “You saved them.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” he frowned, “It was you.”

“Well, technically, it was _Harry’s_ mistletoe,” she mused.

He gave her such a revolted look that she giggled. Pressing her cheek to his chest, she whispered, “It’s midnight. Kiss me.”

“ _Insufferable romantic_ ,” he muttered but then did just that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Sort of… because there’s a bonus short “epilogue” coming! Probably over the weekend because I’m so excited to share it.


	14. Chapter 14

 

_New Year: New Loves for Holiday H.O.G.S._

_Exclusive New Year Release of_ _Skeeter’s Sleaze for the Daily Prophet_

_by gossip correspondent Rita Skeeter_

_Photo credits: Ferris Oftenshoot_

The mark of the New Year was celebrated by wizards across Britain, but none of them would experience a night quite like the one of Harry Potter. _Skeeter’s Sleaze_ is first to announce the official relationship between ultimate celebrity heartthrobs Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Readers, no need perform an examination spell on your eyes, as they have _not_ deceived you. The Most Fanciable Bachelor, three years strong, has been chosen by none other than The Chosen One.

The brand new couple made their debut at the Ministry of Magic’s annual New Year’s Eve Gala donned in top dress robes, coordinating trumpet lily boutonnieres and their distinctive accessories of lightening scar, round glasses and black eye patch. The night started out in question as Harry Potter’s official ticketed guest of the evening was Miss Hermione Granger, housemate and best friend to Potter, but it only took moments for the Boy Who Lived to reveal his true escort for the evening. Upon arrival, Potter quickly swapped Miss Granger for the much more desirable Malfoy heir.

Pictured above, the pair can be seen arm in arm as they united at the Ministry’s Atrium. The affectionate gaze on the famous Auror’s face as he looks upon his newfound sweetheart is one devoted Potter fans have only dreamed to receive. We’re sure witch and wizard hearts alike will break knowing these two wizards are now officially off the market. Whether its Harry Potter or Draco Malfoy you’ve been pining for, dear readers, we send you our deepest condolences.

_Skeeter’s Sleaze_ was able to score an exclusive interview with the enamored wizards themselves. We won’t give away too many details, but readers can look forward to our in-depth cover story in next week’s _Witch Weekly_ to learn more about their burgeoning relationship and tidbits on how it all began. Revealed in the interview are exclusive insights to their road from enemies to lovers, finding time between their dueling work and philanthropist schedules, the cold war between merging house elves, and just what lies beneath that eye patch, after all.

And just how did Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy spend their evening at the most talked about event of the season? They were observed by _Skeeter’s Sleaze_ chatting with Ministry bigwigs, toasting on sparkling pumpkin juice, and taking part in outlandish dancing before giving partygoers the treat of a lifetime: witness to their first public kiss at midnight. It seems that the long-awaited happiness for H.O.G.S. leader, Harry Potter, has finally come at last. The devoted confirmation straight from Mr. Malfoy himself can be heard round the world: “Yeah, Potter’s my boyfriend.”

(For a detailed timeline of Harry Potter’s past love interests, breakups and his history with Draco at Hogwarts and beyond [plus a comprehensive analysis of their dance-moves], see page 6.)

_Skeeter’s Sleaze_ is sad to report that since its last article, known couple Ginny Weasley, of the Holly-Headed Harpies, and her girlfriend, Hannah Abbott, have since parted ways. The duo ended their relationship shortly after Christmas. “Ginny is lovely,” Abbott accounted, “But still hung up on an ex.” It doesn’t take a Seer to tell us just which ‘ex’ the ginger-haired witch can’t forget. Should Mr. Malfoy keep his lone eye out for a revengeful Miss Weasley? Was seeing her ex-boyfriend, Harry Potter, with the Founder of _The Malfoy Fund_ too much for the Quidditch player to handle? What does this mean for the Harpies new season starting next month? Time will tell for the broken-hearted Seeker.

The Ministry’s Gala played backdrop for not just one new couple’s introduction, but two. As previously reported, Hermione Granger and ex-potions professor, Severus Snape, had been cavorting in a private love affair since the former’s Eve of Christmas party. Their romantic getaway to a muggle community was only the first of many public displays of affection for the graduated student and her professor. They were spotted slow dancing at the Ministry (with aid from the elder wizard’s cane), and even stopped to share a passionate kiss on the dance floor before fleeing the party minutes before midnight. It seems the love in the air between these odd-couple H.O.G.S. might have been a little _too_ potent at the Ministry Ball. Pictured below, Miss Granger and Mr. Snape hurriedly made their way to the exit, hands clasped, as other party guests flew in opposite directions. From the emblazoned look on Miss Granger’s face, it is safe to assume just _what_ had those two in such a frenzy to get home. Rumors abound that the pair has established themselves in Miss Granger’s muggle hometown for a ‘quieter’ New Year. Are wedding bells in the future for the wizened warlock and his former pupil? When pressed for comment, Severus Snape only provided the following statement by way of his sparkling new and powerfully bright patronus: “ _God pardon me, and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her._ ” We can only trust Miss Granger understands this cryptic message.

From open declarations of affection to skiving parties for intimate time alone, we can be sure to expect more _Sleaze_ in the future from these hot new couples.

Happy New Year, readers!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> “God pardon me, and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her.” – direct quote from Jane Eyre. Credit to Ms. Bronte.
> 
> a/n:  
> I hope you liked this fic! I hope I did the fandom and this ship justice, because Snamione is awesome and deserves it. Thank you so much for reading and all the comments and kudos!


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